


As The Tide By The Moon

by Edoraslass



Series: The Moon and the Sun [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Domestic Violence, Domestic workers are my favourite OCs, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, PTSD, Plotting, Power Imbalance, Scheming, this is going to hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-27 00:45:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 55,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2672579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edoraslass/pseuds/Edoraslass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a kitchen maid in Edoras is infatuated with Grima Wormtongue. This story follows her efforts to gain Grima's attention, Grima's plots to use her for his own ends, and Theodred's involvment in the whole tangled web.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Advisor

**Author's Note:**

> There is a great deal of psychological manipulation in this story, and situations that may be upsetting for anyone who's ever been in a emotionally or mentally abusive situation. 
> 
>  
> 
> This was one of the first fics I wrote, and is still one of the longest.
> 
> I wrote this in 2005-2006, and did it serial-style, posting each chapter as I went. There's a bit of experimental formatting and such - honestly I wasn't quite sure what I was doing or where it was going. 
> 
> It could probably be neated up and/or filled out a bit more (for some reason I was paranoid about making it too long), but I don't believe that I will, and shall just present it more or less as it was first written. Although the formatting at HASA went a little wonky, and I'm having to reformat every chapter, so let me know if something looks off. 
> 
> Many many thanks to everyone at HASA who helped actively beta.
> 
> ~*~

**3015 TA - Winter**

She does not think he notices her, a lowly kitchen maid, but he does.

Of course he does. He notices everything.

Gríma sees that, although she serves others, she makes certain that she is the only woman who serves him. He notes that she presents him with his favoured foods, that she colours almost imperceptibly when he nods to her, that a dark needful light flares deep in her eyes if he speaks his thanks, so quickly gone that even observant Gríma is never sure that he has seen it.

He knows she is called Lathwyn, but he does not know what name her parents gave her.

When talk at the table grows lively, and those speaking wave their arms about, Gríma sees that Lathwyn flinches, as if she is expecting a blow.

Gríma has noted, when she is bent close serving him, that she has a small white scar across her upper lip, and that her nose is not quite straight, as if it had once been broken. He hears, from men who speak as if they have reason to know, that she has scars on other areas of her body as well, and he wonders at this.

Lathwyn does not, as so many other serving women do, turn coy eyes on the Lords Théodred and Éomer; quite the contrary, she avoids their gazes, although Gríma suspects that only he recognizes it for avoidance and not simple respect.

Gríma also sees that the Lord Théodred is intrigued by her seeming indifference. The Heir of Rohan is not used to being ignored by women of any age, and he watches her curiously, as if searching for a chink in armour.

He is not the only man whose gaze is drawn to Lathwyn; many men look at her with easily-read intentions in their eyes, but she does not appear to know this.

Gríma understands why these men watch her, for her rough, carefully demure clothing cannot hide her lush curves, generous bosom, nor the provocative sway to her hips. The tight braid she wears cannot contain unruly curls of strawberry hair which softly caress the nape of her neck and ears like a lover's touch.

She is more modest in her dress than are the other servants. She does not kilt her skirts up to show her ankles, nor does she lean too far forward when serving.

But to men, she looks like a woman waiting to be undone.

Although he marks Lathwyn's beauty, Gríma is not stirred by it, nor by the spark deep within her eyes which tells him that he is the man she wishes to undo her. His affections and ambitions are bent toward the Lady Éowyn, and he will not be swayed by something as easily-gotten as a kitchen wench.

Gríma notices all these things, and he knows that he can use them to his advantage. He knows he can use her to his advantage, for it is clear that Lathwyn will do anything he ask of her.

The Lord Théodred has long been a thorn in Gríma's side, for the Heir is what keeps Gríma from gaining complete control over Théoden King, and thus, Rohan itself. Ever has Gríma searched for a way to draw Théodred's attention away from his father the King, to no avail.

Gríma sees that the Lord Théodred looks for a way to draw Lathwyn's interest, simply because she shows him none.

Gríma Wormtongue is not a man to let such an opportunity slide by.


	2. The Housemaid

She re-enters the hall to clear away the last of the meal, and realizes that she is alone with Gríma. All the others have left - the royal family, the guards, the courtiers- there is only Gríma. Although for her, there is always only Gríma.

Lathwyn steals a glance toward the king’s advisor, heart pounding, and sees that he sits at the table, head down, shoulders drooping, one hand rubbing his forehead as if it aches. His posture is utterly dejected, and it pierces her to the heart. She cannot stand idly by and watch, if he is in pain, no matter what she might have to bear for daring to approach to him unbidden. 

She advances on silent cat-feet, standing so near to him that she could easily reach out and brush her fingers through his hair. She does not, of course, though the temptation is almost overwhelming.  _My lord? Are you well?_

 She has never been courageous enough to speak to him, not even when he has first spoken to her, and her hands are white-knuckled around the platter she holds. Gríma raises his head, and Lathwyn braces herself for the deserved rebuke which will surely now come. 

But his eyes, while weary, are only surprised.  _It is nothing_ , he tells her. His smooth, sinuous voice slides over her like the shade of the moon, making her skin prickle in a rush of arousal.  _I am only thinking of past days, when I could speak to my King alone, and not be constantly interrupted by the Lord Théodred._

Lathwyn does not know what to say to this; it is not the reply she was expecting. She was expecting a confession of a head-ache, or a poorly stomach - not this quiet confiding in her, as if he knows she is someone he can trust. As if they are friends.

He looks at a spot just beyond her shoulder, speaking as if to himself.  _He has taken a dislike to me, and argues every word I say. He is a man of war, and does not understand anything else. I cannot serve my King so opposed._ Gríma sighs, reaching for his wine goblet, and Lathwyn sees faint lines of tension at the corners of his mouth. Her eyes fix on his mouth as he drinks, takes in the way his throat pulses as he swallows. 

All at once the hall seems far too small, far too warm, and greedily she wonders if the wine would taste the same, if she were to lean forward and lick it from his lips. Then a light touch sends heat through her veins, pulling her out of her musings. 

With a shock so great it takes her breath, Lathwyn realizes that Gríma has laid his hand on her wrist. His skin is just as soft, just as fine and intoxicating and cool as she has so often imagined it would be, and for a moment, she is engulfed in sensation.  _You are good, to listen to an old man’s complaints_ , he says, looking up with a warm, full smile meant for no-one but her. 

Her head swims, dizzy with the scent of rich oils that waft from Gríma toward her, even as she bridles inwardly at the self-effacing “old man”.  _I will keep you from your tasks no longer._ He rises to go, and Lathwyn is so enthralled in his very nearness that she does not curtsey or even move aside to clear his way. She is frozen by him. She inhales deeply as he moves by her, wondering what far, exotic land she is smelling, wondering if his bedchamber smells the same way.  _He did not used to linger so long - but then, he was younger, and had other…interests with which to occupy himself._

She knows Gríma is murmuring to himself, as wise men often do, voicing their thoughts to the most learned person in the room. But at overhearing these muttered words, she is struck with a way to bring Gríma’s attention to her for more than one distracted moment. 

Lathwyn is not blind to the Lord Théodred’s attentions. She knows he thinks her coy, for she does not respond to his frank gaze, not in action, word, or look. His bold eyes, which make Lathwyn want to shrink in upon herself so that he cannot see her, tell her that he is intrigued by her disinterest, even while he does not understand it. But she also knows enough of men to know that if she encourages the Lord Théodred in any way, he will pursue her.

And it will be easy, she thinks, to lead him into doing so. She realizes that if she lets the Lord Théodred pursue her, she may, eventually, have to let him catch her, but this does not concern her. She sees an opportunity to help Gríma; a way to show him how invaluable she could be to him, if he would but allow it. The opportunity she has been watching for.


	3. The Advisor

_My lord Théodred?_  

Gríma does not need to look up to know the owner of that low, questioning voice, but he does so, ever mindful of appearances. There can be no hint that he is aware of Lathwyn, other than in her role of kitchen maid. Not yet.

The King and Lord Théodred look as well, and Gríma sees a spark flare in Lord Théodred’s eyes as he realizes who stands patiently awaiting his acknowledgement.

She bobs a curtsey to all three men.  _Shall you need anything else?_ She has not altered her appearance, nor her posture. Her gaze is as unreadable as always. But she has spoken to Lord Théodred, which she has never done before, and this is unusual enough to catch his notice.

There is also an almost imperceptible stressing of the word “need” - and, by quirking of Lord Théodred’s mouth, Gríma sees that Théoden’s son has not missed this. Théoden King is watching his son with amusement, as well as taking in Lathwyn with something like appreciation. Gríma curses himself for not remembering that the King, also, is a man, with all the appetites and interests of any man.

It is of no matter, for the Lord Théodred is studying Lathwyn’s expressionless face with avid curiosity.  _I am quite finished,_  he tells her, leaning back in his chair.  _You make take these things away._  

Lathwyn leans in front of Lord Théodred to gather the plates, and Gríma admires her subtlety. She does not lean toward Lord Théodred, she does not accidentally brush her hand against his, which he is resting quite close to his plate. She does not meet his gaze, then turn away, blushing prettily. She merely bends forward exactly the distance needed to retrieve the dishware, which is still but half an arm’s length from the son of the King. He makes no move to catch her, for he is not the sort of man to take what is not clearly offered, but Gríma sees that Lord Théodred’s eyes never leave Lathwyn as she tends to her duties.

And Lathwyn pays him no mind. She gathers the plates quickly, and again curtsies. This time, however, she does so to all three: first to Gríma and the King, never looking at them directly, as is correct. When she bows to Lord Théodred, however, Gríma sees that she catches his gaze ever so swiftly. He cannot see what Lord Théodred does in her eyes, but whatever it is, it causes a smile to steal across his face -- the smile of a man accepting a challenge.

She departs, and Théoden King turns to his son, grinning widely.  _Unless I am no judge of women, Théodred, that one has just issued you an invitation._  

The Lord Théodred strokes his chin thoughtfully, looking down the hallway where Lathwyn has disappeared.  _So she has,_  he muses.  _But unless I am no judge of women, that one wishes to be pursued._   _It will certainly be more pleasant than hunting Orc,_  the King points out with a chuckle. Lord Théodred nods his agreement, joining in his father’s laughter.

Gríma is pleased, and a little amazed, at how swiftly Lathwyn draws Lord Théodred in. But, Gríma thinks, Lord Théodred has always been ready to chase a pretty face or teasing smile. Gríma begins to think of other ways he could use her, other tasks she could perform for him. He has long wished for a woman as an agent, for women can be invisible where men cannot. Men will tell women things they would never speak to another man. Oh, she will be useful.

Gríma’s admiration of Lathwyn’s skills grows over the winter, for she is as adept at manipulating the Lord Théodred’s attentions as she is at eluding him. He sees her give him warm, inviting smiles, only to pretend he has misunderstood her intentions when he makes an overture. He sees her glance at Lord Théodred with dark eyes full of promise; notices that her movements become more studied and langorous when she knows he is watching her; watches as she allows Lord Théodred to steal a quick caress here, a swift kiss there in empty hallways.

Lord Théodred still sits with his father and Gríma after the evening meal, but now he rarely takes part in the discussion. He watches Lathwyn at his leisure, looking for a way through her defenses, a man willingly under siege. Grima knows that Lord Théodred finds things he cannot readily have to be more appealing than things offered in a straightforward manner, and Lathwyn is anything but straightforward.

Théoden King notices that his son’s interest in things political has waned, but he seems pleased by his only child’s distraction. _He has not had a woman to keep him occupied for too long,_  he says to Gríma one night,  _and a dull winter is a better time than any for indulging in such pursuits._  

The King’s longtime chambermaid is growing too old for the late hours the King keeps, though he does not wish to displace her entirely. A casual word dropped by Gríma , and Lathwyn is installed as the King’s night maid. Gríma explains Lathwyn’s duties to her: build the fire, make certain the bed is in order, prepare the King’s nightly draught of medicine to ease the aches in his joints. He gives her a small vial, warning,  _One drop only, for dwail is very potent._  

She does not question this; she only flushes a deep pink when Gríma’s fingertips touch hers, and again he sees that momentary fire leap in her eyes. Good, he thinks, self-satisfied. She is still mine.

Winter is drawing to a close. Spring is in the air, and Grima sees Lord Théodred follow Lathwyn in the hallway leading to the King’s chambers. He hears her coy, laughing protest--  _I must tend to your father the King, my Lord_  -- cannot hear Lord Theodred’s reply, if he makes one.

Gríma calls Lathwyn’s name, and she appears quickly, eyes dancing as she gives her skirts a shake. Lord Théodred emerges, face dark with frustration, and speaks to neither as he passes, though he favours the king’s advisor with a narrow glare.  _Is it wise, to lead him such a merry chase?_  Gríma makes certain the Lord Théodred is gone before he questions her. 

_He is a man who prefers a hunt to a surrender,_ she tells him with a sly smile, as if explaining something that should be obvious, and for an instant, Grima is filled with fury that such a lowly, ignorant woman should speak to him in such a manner. Then he sees the shadow of longing in Lathwyn’s expression as she regards him, and is reassured that she is not overstepping her bounds. She is trying to earn his favour.

He smiles approvingly, for she has indeed earned his favour. _I have a task for you,_ he says, and the eager light that breaks across her face swiftly changes his mood of approval to one of utter contempt. She is led as easily as the Lord Théodred, he thinks. And it will be her downfall.


	4. The Heir

The Lord Théodred , Heir to the throne of Rohan, knows it is ridiculous to be so irked by a kitchen maid’s lack of attention, particularly one who is rather free with her favours, if rumours are to be believed. He is a man full-grown, and not some mooning boy. But it is well into winter, and he is bored, for the Orcs have been strangely inactive. He is willing to play her game; he could not have asked for a more welcome way to pass his time. 

 _Why trouble yourself with her?_  Éomer asks more than once, over the last weeks of winter.  _There are many other women who are more easily gotten._  More than once, he has replied,  _Because it is a challenge, little cousin. You have no patience. The chase is half the fun._  

So Lathwyn leads him, and he pursues her. She is subtle; she does not look at him openly, though he often catches her looking at him from the corner of dark eyes full of promise. She rarely has need to speak to him, but when she does, her voice is low, warm, threaded with a hint of invitation that is as enticing as it is pleasantly maddening. It is easy for him to imagine that husky voice crying out his name in the heat of passion.

Théodred does not know why she has decided to suddenly show an interest, when she has been indifferent for so long. He is not inclined to dwell on this, for he is old enough to accept that some questions about women will never be answered, and just vain enough to assume that she has always found him appealing, despite all evidence to the contrary. She lets herself be caught only infrequently, but their too-quick, fiery encounters in halls and empty rooms only whet Théodred’s appetite further. He still sits with his father and Gríma after the evening meal, but now he rarely takes part in the conversation. It is not as if they talk of politics or matters of importance to the realm - evening is when Théoden waxes nostalgic, and Gríma nods and smiles and panders like the veriest worm. Théodred is glad to have something which distracts him from Gríma’s fawning.

Théodred learns that Lathwyn will be seeing to the King’s chambers and feels triumphant. She will have a much harder time eluding him now, for his chamber is very near his father’s, and she will be wandering late in the evening. He notices that his father seems still weakened from the illness he suffered in the summer, but the winter has been very cold, and Théoden does not shake off small ailments as quickly as he once did. It pains him to think of his father growing old, and he does not like to acknowledge that this is inevitable. He smiles when he hears that she has stopped keeping even the most casual company with any man.

Spring comes, and he is restless. Restless, and Théodred’s impatience with Lathwyn’s feigned disinterest is rapidly growing. Soon he will lose interest in her entirely, if she does not do more than tease -but not quite yet. Théodred returns from a two-day patrol in a foul temper, for they find only old camps, and no Orcs. Killing a horde of Orcs would calm the heat that spring has raised in his blood. The heat that  _Lathwyn_  has raised in his blood, though he is reluctant to admit how her ploys have affected him. It is, after all, ridiculous.

There is a knock at his door, and he does not even rise from his chair.  _I did not call for an attendant!_

 A low voice, almost a purr.  _Shall I leave, my lord?_  

The faint amusement in her eyes tell him that she is very aware of how she has affected him, and for a moment, he considers sending her away, if only to see the look on her face when he does so. But the flush in her cheeks tells him that this is not another way to toy with him - he can see that he has affected her as much as she has him.

The swift meeting of mouths and furtive gropings over the winter have only hinted at Lathwyn’s ferocity. Théodred is welcoming of such aggressive behaviour, for far too often women who have chased him so boldly are shy and timid once they are in his bed. Lathwyn is neither of these things. She takes him into herself with no urging on his part, setting an almost frantic rhythm that is surely born of weeks of restraint, and he follows her, holding her hips with a grip that will leave bruises, rising beneath her, letting the sight of her astride him inflame his senses, surrending himself to her heat. She is already preparing to leave when he has not managed to fully catch his breath.

  _You do not have to leave so soon,_  he tells her, stretching.  _You do not have to leave at all, if you do not wish to._  

She turns a wry gaze on him.  _So I will be here in the morning, when you wake needful?_  

Théodred has to laugh at that- it is no more than the truth.  _Will you at least tell me your name?_  She whitens as if he had slapped her. So she is not as completely indifferent as she would like to appear, he thinks. 

 _I know what you are called,_  he assures her,  _But that cannot be the name your parents gave you._  

She regards him for a long, silent moment, and he can make no guess as to her thoughts. Finally she asks,  _Why does it matter?_  

He smiles.  _You have brought me no ill-joy thus far, and I would not call you thus._  

At length, she answers.  _Eledher. That is what my parents named me._

 She returns to him, two, three, four times over the next fortnight. Twice she accepts his invitation, twice she appears of her own accord, and he cannot find a pattern in why she does either. Each time, she leaves him shaking, drenched in sweat, sated yet already thinking of when he will have her next.

Théodred sees scars on her belly and back, but does not wonder what caused them. He knows whose weapons leave such marks. She agrees to stay one night, for no reason Théodred knows, and he falls asleep with her fire-touched hair spilling across his chest.

A quiet whimper stirs him partially from slumber.  _It is a dream. You are dreaming._  

 _Orcs._  She is still asleep, and her voice is startlingly childlike.  _Orcs._  

He draws her against him, already drifting back to sleep.  _There are no Orcs in Edoras. You are safe._  

In the morning, he is awakened by her warm mouth bringing him to swift release, and he does not think to ask her about her nightmare. Her company is sweet, and satisfying, yet Théodred has the nagging feeling that something is not quite right.

Then it strikes to him - she is not there. Oh, to be sure, her body is there, but the faraway look in her eyes is not the distraction of a woman fully immersed in sensation. It is the look of a woman who is thinking of someone other than the man she is with.

This brings him to another realization. She is still playing the game.

He has been so caught by her intensity and undeniable skill at rousing his passion that he has only just recognized that Eledher is still avoiding him. She makes certain that she is the one in control, does not allow him to chose position, pace or acts performed. She takes nothing from him - she achieves relief, but never pleasure.

This stings Théodred’s pride. It piques his anger, not only because she is picturing another man, but also because he does not consider himself a selfish lover. It does not anger him enough to put her aside - he has no intention of casting her off any time soon, for she is most appealing. But Théodred will not continue to have her thinking of some other man while she is with him. When she comes to his chamber next, he will make certain that she can think of no-one else.


	5. The Housemaid

Lathwyn knows that she has pleased Gríma with her enticement of the Lord Théodred, for she has seen him watching her with the faintest hint of approval. She knows that he will not compliment her aloud, but this does not lessen her pride.

At first she finds it more difficult than she would have thought, leading the Lord Théodred with meaningful eyes and slow curving smiles, for her inclination is still to look away from him, lest he scorch her with his brazen gaze.

So she imagines that she is directing her actions toward Gríma, and finds the game much easier, much more appealing. She is surprised when Gríma approaches her, and tells her she is to be Théoden King’s evening attendant; but she also takes this as a sign of his further approval.

Gríma explains her duties to her, and gives her a vial of liquid which is meant to ease the King’s joint ailments.  _One drop only, for dwail is very potent._ The name of the potion is vaguely familiar; her grandmother was a midwife, and as a child, Lathwyn spent many hours assisting her in gathering herbs.

His fingertips brush hers, and her breath catches painfully in her throat.

It is winter, and the Lord Théodred prowls the halls, watching her with shrewd eyes, and she allows him to catch her for quick embraces in darkened corners. She always makes certain to do so only when she knows someone else will happen along soon - it will not do to give him too much.

On one such occasion, it is Gríma who disturbs them, and she can see the irritation in the Lord Théodred’s face as he is obliged to release her. She is amused when Gríma questions the wisdom of teasing the Lord Théodred so, and explains what Gríma should already know: Lord Théodred prefers a chase to a surrender. For an instant, Lathwyn sees something bright and cold in Gríma’s dark eyes, but then he asks her to carry out another task for him, and she is so overjoyed at being able to further assist him that she forgets this entirely.

It is a simple task - see to gathering his letters. He receives and sends many, and does not have time to do so himself.

She is diligent in her new duties as attendant to the King. She holds Théodred King as dearly as she does the memory of her father, and makes sure that he wants for nothing.

Spring arrives, and Lathwyn can see Théodred’s frustration and impatience growing. She knows that she must soon give into him -- but not quite yet. She waits until he has returned from a patrol, and is no doubt full of battle-heat. He does not refuse her, as she knew he would not. She immediately takes the lead, and he is most willing for her to do so.

After their first, almost violent encounter, he does a thing that confuses Lathwyn: he asks her her birth-name. Rarely has anyone asked her that question since she was brought to Edoras many years ago, and never has any man with whom she has lain. She regards him for a long moment, curious, but can think of no reason she should not tell him.

She returns four times over the next fortnight, being careful to make no pattern in when she comes to him. It will not do to be predictable. The second night, he watches her while she dresses.  _You are the quietest woman I have ever lain with,_ he muses.

She arches an eyebrow at him, amused.  _You would prefer I shout down the Meduseld, my lord? Shake your lord father from his bed?_  

The mischievious gleam in his eyes tells her the answer to that question, but all he says aloud is  _You need not call me ‘lord’, when we are in private._  Then he chuckles, she assumes in response to her rather puzzled gaze. I _t is not a royal decree, Eledher. Do as you like._  

He is to say this to her often:  _It is not a royal decree._  But she is very aware of his status, and, to her, many things he says might as well be orders from the throne.

She does not tell him that she will never shout down the Meduseld. The occasional twinge of pain in her nose reminds her that in all circumstances, it is better to be quiet.

Lathwyn had not expected the reactions from the other women of the household. Now that she has gone to Lord Théodred’s bed, most of them who were friendly are now cool toward her, and a handful are blatantly hostile.  _A tricksy whore, is that one,_  she overhears in the laundry one day, as she is bringing in Théoden King’s bedding.  _Ignores the Prince, makes him beg for it, and gets moved to easy duties rather than kicked out onto the midden-heap with the rest of the refuse._  

Often when she retires, she finds things in her cot; dirt, water, horse-droppings, once a dead rat. Although she holds no woman as dear friend, Lathwyn is hurt by these shows of jealous resentment, and one night, rather than return to a befouled bed, she stays with the Lord Théodred, as he has suggested twice before. She has been with many men, and yet she has never fallen asleep in the arms of any lover.

As she drifts off, lulled by his rhythmic breathing, she imagines that it is Gríma’s arm draped around her waist, Gríma’s chest pressed firmly against her back For the first time in many nights, Lathwyn is not troubled by dreams of her past. She awakes, and for a moment does not know where she is. Then she remembers, and looks at the man sleeping peacefully next to her.

With a faint start, she notices that he is quite handsome, something which had never truly occurred to her before. And while he is lost in slumber, she need not see any other man’s face, for his intensity is at rest. He looks as young as she is, and quite unintimidating.

She comes again to the Lord Théodred’s chamber; knocks and is granted entrance. He is sprawled on his back in the middle of the bed, covered only by a drying cloth, looking as if he might be asleep. Without moving, he bids her come to him.

She does so, shedding clothing as she goes, shaking her hair free of its tight braid -- Lord Théodred never seems to tire of running his fingers through her auburn curls. She moves onto the bed, meaning to begin by rousing him with her hand, but before she knows what has happened, she is trapped beneath his strong, solid body, which is still slightly damp from the bath. 

_You have been most attentive to my needs,_  he drawls,  _and I think it time that I am attentive to yours._ For a moment, Lathwyn has no idea what he means by this, and then his meaning becomes apparent as he brings his mouth to the curve of her neck and his hand to cover her breast.

She does not know how to protect herself from this. She has always been the one dictating the course of their encounters, and she has done this quite purposefully, so that she may remain detached. When she is riding the Lord Théodred, head thrown back, eyes closed tightly in concentration, it is easy for her to imagine that it is Gríma between her thighs, panting and groaning; it is even easier when Lord Théodred is taking her from behind, for then she need not even be aware of his face.

This is why she prefers these positions - she can remove herself from the situation, from Lord Théodred himself, and still gain relief. Her experience has taught her that most men do not care if a woman enjoys herself, as long as their own desires are met. She realizes that for a mistake now, as Lord Théodred’s mouth replaces his hand on her suddenly tender breast.

She has rarely been with the same man more than once, and she never expected that all her feigned ferocity and aggression would not be enough. She cries out softly at the hot wetness of his tongue encircling one nipple, and feels him smile against her.

She tries to summon a picture of Gríma doing this to her, but she has never considered such a situation. In Lathwyn‘s daydreams, she is always the one who performs, never the one who is performed upon. But now she is not allowed to do anything. The Lord Théodred’s weight presses her to the mattress, and he is overwhelming her, filling her senses, making her tremble beneath him. His mouth, moving from one breast to the other, teasing. His roughened hand, lightly, insistently stroking the sensitive flesh on the inside of her thigh, eliciting a stifled exclamation.

The smell of him - sweat, horses, leather, a clean whiff of soap, and an underlying musky scent that is his alone. His hips, grinding into hers, the hard length of him pressing into her, as if asking for entrance. His mouth…oh, his mouth…..

She cannot think of anything other than what Lord Théodred is doing to her, much less make her mind see anyone else. Gríma does not feel, smell, touch like this, not even in the secret corners of her mind. She is besieged, and she has no way to defend herself from such a tactic. She raises her hips, reaching for him, opening to him, but, to her startlement, he eludes her. 

_Patience_ , he murmurs, breath a feather-light touch as he marks a slow tingling path toward her belly.  _Patience._  

She begins to protest, for her anticipation is already cresting, but the Lord Théodred moves lower yet, and at the fire of his mouth on exquisitely tender flesh, she clutches convulsively at his wide shoulders, breath stopping in her throat. It has been so long since Lathwyn wanted anything other than a simple outlet for tension that she has forgotten what sweetly aching desire a man can rouse in her body; has forgotten how a clever tongue and knowing fingers can make her quiver and gasp and strain toward him, silently asking for more, more, ever more - -

She can do nothing but writhe beneath his touch, for he is determined to take his time, and even her breathless, ragged moans when she reaches her shuddering peak do not persuade him to stop his careful exploration.

When finally he pursues his own release inside her welcoming heat, he is already pushed to the far edge of restraint, and she has a fleeting moment of remorse that it does not take longer. They lay so entwined, panting, Lathwyn’s arms tight around his neck, Lord Théodred’s face buried against her shoulder. He withdraws from her and lies on his back.  _Shall you stay?_  he asks lazily after several moments of silence.

She cannot stifle a yawn which turns into a crooked smile.  _I shall, if you will let me **sleep**. _ Lord Théodred grins, and Lathwyn is struck by the way the expression softens his face.  _Of course I will,_  he assures her, drawing her against him, fitting himself to the curve of her body.

She does not quite believe him, for he is absently caressing her hip even as he speaks, but has no desire to leave and return to her narrow cot. She closes her eyes and is almost immediately asleep. Two days later, Lord Théodred leaves on another patrol, and Lathwyn finds herself regretting his absence, for she does so enjoy sleeping in that wide, soft bed.


	6. The Advisor

Gríma is pleased.

Because of Lord Théodred’s preoccupation with Lathwyn, Gríma has been able to take full advantage of the King’s nightly wistful remembrances of years past. He listens with seeming sympathy, but he is looking for weakness, for doubts that can be exploited.

As spring slowly becomes summer, Gríma does not have to contend with Lord Théodred’s antagonism at all, for the Second Marshal is more and more often away from Edoras. When he returns to the Golden Hall, Lord Théodred delivers reports of Orcish activity and discusses matters important to the rule of Rohan. But little changes these days. Often the conversations he has with his father are merely those which they have had many times in the past, with no new conclusions being drawn.

The Lord Théodred is most eager to chase pleasure with Lathwyn and spends little time lingering in the Hall or with his father, once these stale topics have been exhausted. 

_Do not concern yourself, my lord - there is time yet for him to wed. The Steward of Gondor’s eldest son is of an age with yours, and he has not yet taken a wife. Let him chase the maids a while longer. He serves you well, and deserves a bit of…relaxation._  

The Lord Éomer is another matter, for though he, too, is oft away on patrol, he is young and inclined to speak his mind plainly. He has no distraction as does Lord Théodred, and is more willing to argue pointlessly. And it is clear that he hates Gríma with the cold passion of a blade, though even Lord Éomer is not impulsive enough to state this in so many words directly to the King. Grima also knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Éomer Éomund’s son would slay him in a heartbeat for no reason other than the way Grima watches the Lady Éowyn.

If he is ever to have that lady, Gríma must rid himself completely of the young Lords, but he does not yet dare attempt such a manouver. But he can turn the King’s ever more confused mind to his advantage.  _There can be no argument that he is a not powerful warrior, sire. But he can be reckless. Would you lose another beloved family member - and more Riders - as you lost his father? He will chafe at the restriction, but he is young, and undisciplined. It is your duty to make certain that your Marshals are not acting without your authority, even if that Marshal be your sister-son. You cannot allow him such free rein._

Gríma congratulates himself on using Lathwyn as messenger for his correspondence. She cannot read, so there is no danger that her curiosity will lead her to investigate the contents of any letter. He leaves such letters in the dusty unused library of the Golden Hall, she retrieves them, delivers them to a courier, collects any packets arriving for him, and returns these to the library. It is the work of a few moments, in which no-one misses Lathwyn’s presence.

Never do any missives directly pass hands from Lathwyn to Gríma; never does any man bringing such missives speak Gríma’s name, nor the name of the sender. The couriers do not even know what Gríma looks like - Saruman saw the wisdom in doing away with the men who did know Gríma’s face. If the letters are ever discovered, there is nothing to connect Gríma to their contents. If the letters are ever discovered, it will all fall on Lathwyn, for Gríma will deny any such arrangement. There is no-one in the court who will take the word of a slatternly kitchen maid over that of the King’s advisor.

The King’s health is poor, as it has been since he contracted a lung illness the previous summer -- but he is not declining fast enough to suit either Grima or his master. Gríma confronts Lathwyn.  _The King seems to be in much pain - he walks so slowly. You have not forgotten to prepare his joint draught?_  

She regards him with something like offense mixed with deep respect.  _He does not ask for it every night._

Rage flares in Gríma, and although he is always careful to hide such anger when it strikes, he notes Lathwyn recoils almost imperceptibly--as if she were waiting for him to strike her. He does not think that she herself knows how she has reacted, but this reaction makes him smile inwardly. She would do well to fear him. 

_Théoden King is a proud man - if he asks for the draught, then the pain is truly beyond reckoning. Would you willingly have your king in pain, if you can prevent it?_  

She is slow to answer, and Gríma restrains his impatience with her stupidity.  _I cannot give him such a potent medicine without his consent. It wouldn’t be proper._  Gríma moves one step closer to her, and there is a light which dances briefly in Lathwyn’s eyes as he does so, as well as a shadow of wariness. 

_I am telling you, as King’s Advisor - you must give it to him nightly. Else he will soon be crippled by the aching._ Again she hesitates, and deliberately, Gríma tenses his shoulders, as if he is about to raise his hand.

Again, Lathwyn flinches - but she gives the answer he wants.  _Of course, my lord._

 It is by Saruman’s command that Gríma has begun to so weaken the King’s constitution. He does not know how it will be done, for he knows nothing of wizard’s deeds, but by overthrowing the King’s body, Saruman will be able to entrap the King’s mind. And then Rohan -- and the Lady Éowyn-- will be Gríma’s.

This, too, can never be laid at Gríma’s feet, for the potion which so undermines the King’s health is delivered by Lathwyn. Gríma did not procure the dwail from any in Rohan, and there is no-one to support any claim Lathwyn might make against him.

Gríma knows she has no close friends, and he has observed the hostility with which the other women servants now treat her. It is well-known that she has spread her favours liberally among the men of Edoras. This, along with the fact that she spurned the Lord Théodred for so long, only to abruptly welcome his advances, will only feed the idea that she is inconstant and untrustworthy. She will have no defense. She will raise a cry and point her finger at him, this Gríma knows - but she will not be believed, no matter how Lord Théodred despises Gríma.

She has no proof but her own tarnished word, and there is no amount of skill in the bedchamber that will protect her from the wrath of Théoden’s son if her part in this is ever uncovered Gríma leads her further into his snare with approving expression and encouraging nods, feeling great satisfaction at the respectful way she listens to him. He is careful to make certain that he is never seen speaking with alone with her, and, when he does have need to speak directly to Lathwyn, Gríma makes certain that there are always other people nearby.

She is oblivious to her danger. Gríma congratulates himself on a plan well-executed.

 

 


	7. The Housemaid

Lathwyn is bemused, for she thinks she is content.

She now has an important position in the royal household, she has the Lord Théodred’s attentions, and she has gained Gríma’s approval. True, Gríma still looks after the Lady Éowyn, and does not seem to notice Lathwyn as she would like him to, but he is aware of her, and finds her useful. It is a start.

She assumes Gríma wishes her to deliver his letters to the library because he is a private man, and does not wish anyone to invade his office or sleeping chamber. But occasionally she wonders why, for she sees pages go into Gríma’s office frequently, and thinks that perhaps he simply does not wish a woman to enter his rooms.

The couriers all seem to be of a type - dusty, sullen men on second-rate horses who impudently size her up - and Lathwyn quickly learns that they will not accept any refreshment but water, and never do they linger in Edoras once their task is finished. She notes that only one of them is of the Rohirrim, and that there is no pattern in which courier will show up.

As spring becomes summer, the Lord Théodred is more and more frequently away from Edoras - two days here, six days there - and she finds the long nights by herself tedious.

When he is gone, however, one or two of the women have begun talking to her in a friendly manner again. She cannot say why this is, but she accepts it, and does not hold a grudge against them for their coolness. She knows they are jealous of her, and knows snubbing them in return will not change those feelings.

Gríma approaches her. 

_The King seems to be in much pain - he walks so slowly. You have not forgotten to prepare his joint draught?_  

She is offended that he would think her remiss in her duties, but pleased that he is so near her.  _He does not ask for it every night._

Gríma regards her wordlessly for a moment, and there is something in his eyes, an emotion that she cannot place, and a chill touches her briefly.  _Théoden King is a proud man - if he asks for the draught, then the pain is truly beyond reckoning. Would you willingly have your king in pain, if you can prevent it?_  

She blinks in surprise at what she thinks he is suggesting.  _I cannot give him such a potent medicine without his consent. It wouldn’t be proper._  

Gríma takes a step toward her, and for no reason she knows, Lathwyn suddenly thinks of Cynat, and is so taken aback by this incongruous fragment of memory that it is a moment before she realizes Gríma has spoken to her again.  __

_I am telling you, as King’s Advisor - you must give it to him nightly. Else he will soon be crippled by the aching._

 She hesitates, for even though Gríma is King’s Advisor, she is loathe to dose the King without his knowledge. However, she knows the answer he is waiting for.  _Of course, my lord._

Later, while finishing her nightly duties, Lathwyn wonders why Cynat came to mind. Cynat had no wisdom, no care for others and persuaded only through hard fists and vicious threats. Gríma is nothing like that Dunlending man.

The memory shakes her deeply, and that night, she has dark dreams, and no Prince of Rohan to keep them at bay.

Contrary to what she had led Grima to believe, Lathwyn cannot bring herself to give Théoden King the potion without having first been asked to do so. Not only does she think it improper and presumptuous, but also because she remembers enough of her grandmother’s teachings to know that such medicines should not be taken if they are not needed.

But she keeps a close watch on the King, once even daring to ask if he would not like some respite from the pain.  _You are a thoughtful child, but I do not need such comfort tonight. Stir up the fire a bit before you go._

 She notices, too, that the King’s health, never strong in this past year, seems to be declining further, inch by slow inch. There is not one specific thing that she can point to and say  _There, that is what ails him,_  but she feels a sense of wrongness about her lord’s well-being.

She worries for him, more so when he one day absentmindedly calls her Théodwyn, and does not seem to realize that he has done so. The Lord Théodred returns late one evening, after nearly a month in the field, and Lathwyn is startled by her reaction when she sees him riding up to the Meduseld. When his eyes meet hers across the Hall, his intentions are so clearly writ there that she must look away, cheeks reddening.

It occurs to her that this is much the same look which once made her shrivel inwardly, but now, this look throws her nerves into an uproar of anticipation. She is approaching his chamber when she is caught up in strong arms, and squeaks breathlessly as his mouth captures hers. There is no mistaking his demanding or her body’s response to it, but unexpectedly she feels panic rising within her at the smell coming from him. She struggles to push him away as he is leading her into his room. 

_Wait …Théodred…_  

He draws back, expression a combination of pleased startlement and frustration.  _What is it?_  

Lathwyn is not even aware that she has called him by name; the odor is overwhelming. She has gone rigid against him, holding herself from his chest with stiff arms.  _You…you reek of Orc…_  

He narrows his eyes at her, skeptical, and for a moment, she sees something odd in his gaze. Then it is gone as understanding comes across his face.  _Oh. I would not have thought you would -- yes, we came across a band this afternoon._

He releases her, and steps away, though his arousal is obvious. She is surprised at his immediate acceptance, but unutterably relieved.  _I am sorry…I cannot…not while…the smell is…_ it is as if she is again a frightened child, with that horrific scent filling her nostrils, and she cannot say more.

He gives her a wry smile.  _Bathing is no hardship, Eledher. Wait inside, and I shall return for inspection._  

When he returns, she is sitting in a side-chair, pondering her violent reaction, for she had thought that memory tamed. He goes to his knees in front of her, lays his hands lightly on her thighs, and she is reassured to find a trace of humour on his face. He has decided to make this a game, she sees. She leans forward, inhales deeply of the curve of his neck.

There is soap-- saddle soap, if she is not mistaken - a hint of wet straw and grass, slightly stale water, mud, more horse than is usual after bathing and of course his own underlying spice. But only a trace of Orc, so faint that she has to concentrate to find it, so faded that it does not send her into the past.

She laughs softly in his ear, and his hands slide to her hips, sending heat up her spine.  _You bathed in a trough?_  

She breathes him in again, cannot resist planting a lingering kiss just behind his ear, sees the vein in his throat jump in response.  _I did not want to wait for warm water._  His reply is very nearly a growl, and she pounces on him, toppling him backwards onto the thickly woven rug.

They do not even try to make it to the bed until much later.

She does not dream of Orcs that night, but over the next few days, she occasionally finds herself ambushed by the memories again - of Orcs, of Cynat, of Dunland and once of Gelendan, and is unsettled by the resurgence of the past. She pushes these thoughts aside as best she can, and soon, they do not trouble her so openly.


	8. Interlude- Midsummer

**The Advisor**  

Gríma despises celebrations such as the Midsummer Festival, but it is traditional, and all in Edoras look forward to it.

He interacts with no-one unless he must, rarely leaving the King's side, and watches the merry-makers with well-hidden contempt. His eyes are drawn again and again to the Lady Éowyn. She dances with numerous Riders, including her kin, and Gríma’s heart aches at her beauty. The golden arc of her hair as she is spun around, the wide smile on her face, her joyous pealing laughter, the lithe grace in every motion she makes - it shakes him to his core, makes him vulnerable, and he looks away so that he may build his defenses against her.

But he cannot keep from watching her any more than he can keep from breathing. This is his prize; this will be his reward once Saruman has the King fully under his control. This is what he wants more than power or wealth. She will be his, whether she wishes it or no, for he deserves her.

The Lady Éowyn catches him watching her, speaks to her brother, who turns a cold narrow gaze on Gríma . Gríma does not look away, only meets Lord Éomer’s eyes with seeming dispassion. He is doing nothing of which he should be ashamed, for he is not the only one watching Lady Éowyn. She is the most radiant woman in Edoras.

Several times over the course of the day, Gríma sees a man who is obviously not of the Rohirrim. This is not unusual for such an occasion - many of the musicians and merchants are from other lands. However, he suspects that this particular man is a spy sent by Saruman to make sure that Gríma is carrying out all orders properly, and this angers him.

He sees Lathwyn glance toward this man once or twice, as if he is known to her, and this confirms his suspicion, for the only way she would know him is if he were a messenger. This angers him so, in fact, that when the man wanders close to the royal platform, Gríma summons a guard and orders him to keep an eye on the man. The guard, who at first seems reluctant to heed Gríma’s order, obeys without question when Gríma points out how similar in colouring the man is to the Dunlendings.

_Let him report that to Saruman_ , Gríma thinks. _I will not be second-guessed on my own field of play by a man who will not come out of his tower._

**The Heir**  

The Lord Théodred enjoys such festivals. The informality of the setting gives him time during which he can relax and joke with Riders and common folk alike as if he were not one of the highest-ranked men in the land. Though of course he is still Second Marshal and Heir to Rohan, today he can afford to ignore both those titles, just for a few hours, although he knows that at any moment he may be required to take them on again.

He is pleased by the way none of the Riders - of his  _éored_  or otherwise - hold back against him in the exhibitions, for it is dull when they are deferential. And he is perfectly aware that Eledher watches him as he mock-fights a Rider from Aldburg.

He smiles to himself at the expression on her face when he dunks his head in a trough to cool down, for, although many of her moods are still a mystery, her look of frank appreciation promises a lusty night ahead. He watches her in turn, and is mildly startled to see her keeping company with Liðides and her husband Éofor, a man in his own  _éored_. He wonders how she came to be friends with that couple.

He has never seen Eledher as she is today; he only seen her when she is tending to her duties -- or when she is tending to him. He has not seen her when she is smiling so, nor heard her laugh in delight as she is doing now, when her current partner spins her too quickly around the square and her unbound hair flows behind her like a banner. She seems carefree and cheerful, a different person entirely from the inscrutable woman who is so uninhibited in his bedchamber, and he is taken off-guard by his reaction to her lighthearted demeanor. 

_Have you cast her off, then?_  

Théodred turns, surprised, to his cousin.  _What would make you think I have done that?_  

Éomer takes a drink of his ale.  _It is the rumour. You have been avoiding her all day._

Théodred regards the younger man with mild irritation.  _I have not been 'avoiding' her. I just did not think it seemly to flaun --_  

Éomer snorts rudely.  _It is not as if the entire city does not know about your association, Théodred. And it is not as if, in past years, you have not flaunted your current_  lufestre  _at such celebrations. What would you expect people to say, when you have not so much as danced with her all day?_  

Théodred has to admit this is so. 

_Would you favour me with a dance?_  

She looks up at him with wide, startled eyes, and then a warm smile, almost bashful, certainly surprised, lights up her oft-solemn face. 

_I would be pleased, my lord._  He takes her round the waist and leads her into the square, thinking it odd that it feels unfamiliar to hold her. After all, he knows every inch of her, has had her in his arms countless times. But it is odd to touch her through layers of fabric, when before it has always been skin against skin; odd to be with her in front of all eyes, including his father's; odd that she seems nervous, though she does not miss a step of the dance, and that he himself is slightly nervous as well, for reasons he cannot articulate.

And it is odder yet that he finds all these things arousing, though, he thinks wryly, it is perhaps predictable.

The dance ends, and he does not loosen his hold on her waist. He can read the gleam in her eyes as easily as she can read the one in his, and he starts to lean toward her mouth. 

_My lord..._  Théodred pauses, sighing internally at her frequent reluctance to address him by name.  _Not here._  Her soft words are somewhere between a request and a statement, and he is curious.

Festivals of this sort seem made for flirting and such behaviour; no-one would remark on a harmless kiss today. But Théodred sees that the colour in her cheeks is not due entirely to dancing; she seems unnerved, and he realizes that she is very self-conscious - shy, even- at being held by him in front of so many people. He studies her a moment. She is not playing at modesty; she is quite serious, and he finds her reluctance at accepting his public caresses somehow endearing. Théodred takes her by the hand, and notes how small it seems in his. 

_Come with me._

**The Housemaid**  

Lathwyn is relieved to find that, at least for the duration of the festival, the other women are friendly. She had not been looking forward to the celebration, for she had foreseen herself having no-one with whom to enjoy the day . She need not have worried; Liðides and her husband Éofor invite her to walk the grounds with them, and these two have been friends since Lathwyn's arrival in Edoras, although Lathwyn knows that Liðides does not always approve of her actions.

She does not lack for dance partners, and is irritated at how many of them seem disappointed that she does not encourage advances. She does not understand, for it is well-known that she shares the Lord Théodred’s bed every night he is in Edoras, and, while she is far from pure, she is insulted that men assume this also means she is unfaithful.

She does not normally watch the Riders' exhibitions of skills, but this year, cannot help but observe Lord Théodred. She has always been aware, of course, that he is a warrior, but knowing this and watching him display his expertise are two different things. Lathwyn admires the supreme confidence in his actions, the predatory way he grins at his opponent as he advances. A slow heat begins to build in the pit of her stomach as she watches him mock-fight with another Rider, and she blushes furiously when Liðides gently teases her about Lord Théodred’s prowess with a spear.

She sees a man who is familiar, and, after watching him a bit, realizes he is one of the messengers who bring Gríma’s letters. She wonders if he is on such an errand today, but, when she catches his eye, a minute shake of his head tells her that he is not here for business reasons.

Lathwyn is resting after a particularly lively dance with a charming musician when, to her surprise, the Lord Théodred approaches her.  _Would you favour me with a dance?_

 She blinks, caught off-guard. She did not expect to keep company with him during the day's festivities; it is not as if they have any attachment beyond mutual pleasure. But she hesitates only a moment before accepting with a smile, and she is as confused by the nervousness she feels when he takes her round the waist and sweeps her into the square as she is by the unexpectedly warm smile he gives her in return.

Lathwyn finds it very strange to be held by the Lord Théodred in front of any who will look. Although she knows the entire court is aware of where she spends her nights, she feels exposed as they move around the dance square, exposed as she has never felt when she is naked in his bed. Perhaps it is that it is unusual to behave in so chaste a manner while so near him; perhaps it is that she is aware of him in a way she has never been before, as he leads her around the dance square with unsuspected grace; perhaps it is simply that dancing with him stirs her blood, and somehow feels more intimate than anything else they have shared.

Or perhaps, she thinks to herself with an odd pang of guilt, it is because she knows that Gríma is watching her with Lord Théodred.

The music ends, and the spark in Lord Théodred’s eyes is both familiar and welcome. He begins to lean toward her, and she turns her face away, flushing.  _My lord…_  

He stops, expression questioning. 

_Not here._  

He is clearly puzzled, and she does not know how to make him believe that she is too modest to let him kiss her in front of all revelers. It does not matter that she has seen countless men and women embrace throughout the day; she is not comfortable with such an action. It is far too personal a thing to let others watch.

He studies her for a moment, then nods, and takes her hand. It occurs to her than he has never held her hand so, never held her hand at all, and she finds the action strangely comforting.  _Come with me._  

**The Advisor**  

Gríma sees the interactions between the Lord Théodred and Lathwyn, and is amused. He did not expect that she would be able to hold his attention for more than a month; she must be truly skilled, for it has been almost four.

Though, he thinks, Lord Théodred has rarely been in Edoras more than seven days at a time, since winter faded. Perhaps he has simply not had her in his bed often enough to grow bored of her charms.

He watches them dance, curious. He sees a conversation between them when the dance ends, sees the Lord Théodred lead Lathwyn from the main celebration area toward the royal stables, no doubt in search of a quiet dark spot for a swift tryst.

Something about their postures, both in dancing and in leaving the square, intrigues Gríma. He cannot place what it is that catches his interest, not just yet - but he will keep it in mind. There is never any predicting when such things will turn out to be useful.

 

 


	9. The Heir

Lord Théodred is concerned.

All through the hot days of summer, he has sought out and destroyed Orcs where he has found them. But something is wrong -- there are not enough Orcs. Summer is when these foul creatures are most active, and in past years, it has often been a struggle to keep Rohan safe.

This summer, however, it is as if the Orcs have gained some sort of insight into the Rohirrim’s defenses. He and his men find traces of camps, signs of Orcish activity -- but too frequently, no Orcs. Much time is spent tracking the creatures down, time which could be spent protecting outlying villages. He suspects the Orcs are being fed information of the Riders‘ movements, and knows, with every instinct he possesses, that such information is coming from Gríma Wormtongue. But he has no proof, nothing upon which he can act.

Gríma is canny, and no hint of his treacherous behaviour can be found. Théodred cannot speak to his father the King of his suspicions, for Gríma is always lurking at Théoden’s elbow. And Théoden has grown more distant and less coherent of late. The King has good days and bad, but even when his father seems perfectly lucid, Théoden is less and less likely to tolerate any words against his advisor.

Théodred is also wary, for, though all  _éoreds_  are occupied in slowly hunting Orcs down, there has been no word of increased attacks on such isolated areas. The activity of the Orcs has not significantly increased or decreased; it is simply that the beasts are harder to find. He does not understand why this should be. It makes no sense.

For reasons Théodred does not know, the King has begun to keep a strict watch on the doings of the Third Marshal, and Éomer is growing more and more frustrated. Théoden has never done so before, trusting to the Second Marshal his son to deal with and report any disciplinary problems. Théodred knows that his young cousin is offended and infuriated by the restrictions which have been imposed upon him for no clear reason. 

_I know that it is insulting, Éomer. But you_ must _be wary of seeming rebellious. I tell you, Gríma is looking for a way to rid himself of you, and me, and he would be more than pleased to charge either of us with treason. And no matter what his motivations, no-one in Rohan could deny his right to do so if we flout the will of the King. I cannot do without you -- you must not give Wormtongue that opportunity._  

Although Théodred does not like to admit that his father the King has any failings, he cannot deny that Théoden’s state of mind is not what it once was. It is not apparent for all to see yet -- presently the King seems merely weakened in body -- but his kin and those closest to him are aware of the change. He speaks of this to Eledher one night, for she has recently taken over all chambermaid duties for the King and spends much more time in the royal presence. 

_How seems my father to you?_  She turns on her side to face him, and Théodred is surprised when she answers with deep anxiety, as if he were her own father. 

_He does not eat as he should. I can tell by the state of his bed that some nights he does not sleep in it, or at all, and he depends too much on ale. Sometimes…_  She is hesitant to continue, until he makes an impatient gesture for her to go on.  _Many times he calls me Théodwyn , and once he called me Elfhild. Sometimes he does not appear to notice I am in the room, but he will talk to people who are not there._

Théodred knows there is nothing he can do to stop his father’s decline, and he is filled with helpless anger. He does not share his concerns with his cousins; both Éomer and Éowyn have enough worries of their own. He certainly cannot discuss such matters with other Riders, or even with other Lords, for it would undermine the country‘s confidence in Théoden son of Thengel.

So he begins to unburden himself to Eledher, for he knows that she does not spread rumours as so many other of the servants do. He does not speak to her of his misgivings about Gríma Wormtongue, for it would be highly improper for him to voice such unfounded accusations to her, no matter how close-mouthed she is. She listens, and does not try to reassure him that everything will be all right, for which he is grateful.

He finds her calming in this respect, and in others as well. Eledher does not suggest that he should make their arrangement permanent. She does not hint that she might be with child, nor put forth any effort to wring jealousy from him. She does not ask for special treatment in the household, nor does she flaunt her connection to him to any in the Meduseld. Nearly every other woman Théodred has taken into his bed have done one of these things, and those women grew tedious very quickly.

Eledher is a welcome change, as well as satisfying company, and he is often soothed by her presence. She still has occasional nightmares, but these restless nights do not often disturb him. A gentle touch or word from Théodred sends Eledher into quiet, dreamless slumber, and he rarely need wake fully to so comfort her. He wonders how well she rests when he is in the field.

Théodred comes to the breakfast table one morning yawning hugely, and Éomer grins knowingly.  _Perhaps you should_ sleep _at night, cousin. Though I have heard she is rather lively._  

Éowyn rolls her eyes, but Théodred is unaccountably irritated by this jest, and his reply is sharp.  _She does not always sleep well, cousin. And as a result,_ I _do not sleep well._  

Éomer looks startled at Théodred’s tone.  _If she keeps you from slumber, why do you not simply send her to her own bed?_  

Théodred’s irritation threatens to become anger, and he keeps a tight rein on his temper.  _I fail to see how that, or her “liveliness” is any concern of yours, Éomer. Might I eat in peace?_ He turns to his food, for as far as Théodred is concerned, the conversation is over, and he does not see the puzzled, faintly concerned look that passes between Éomer and Éowyn.


	10. The Advisor

Gríma does not know what to think, for he has received a most curious letter from Saruman.  _I see that you have things well in hand in Rohan_ , the letter reads,  _my man reports that he could not walk the city without being followed by one of the King's guards._

Gríma cannot decide if this is a subtle rebuke, or a sincere compliment; either way, it pleases him. If Saruman is disapproving with his actions, then Gríma has shown Saruman that he is not to be trifled with. If Saruman is approving, then he is that much higher in the wizard's good graces. But he knows that he must be cautious; Saruman will only tolerate so much boldness or independence of action. Gríma does not wish to do anything that would prevent him from having the Lady Éowyn as his own, once Saruman's plans have come to fruition.

Gríma hears the Lord Théodred's reports on the difficulties the  _éoreds_ have had in locating Orcs. He feels a flash of triumph at the Second Marshal's obvious frustration and aggravation, for Gríma knows, as of course Lord Théodred does not, that this is largely due to information Gríma has passed onto Saruman. Lathwyn is not Gríma's only agent; he has men scattered about Rohan who gather such intelligence and relay it.

Additionally, Gríma takes all reports of the Riders' movements, and sends them on to Saruman. In this manner, Saruman finds the patterns in such forays, allowing his Orcs often avoid the Riders entirely. It amuses Gríma that, in a sense, Lord Théodred is helping to bring about the downfall of his beloved country.

And the King is becoming easier to control by the day, as his health slides ever downward. Finally Théoden King is beginning to show signs of being affected by the dwail. The King is much weaker than he has ever been, in both mind and body; he complains of nausea and often will not take food at all; his skin often appears flushed, and he is often not entirely aware of his surroundings. He so frequently addresses Lathwyn as  _Théodwyn_  that she now answers to this name as if it were her own. And in recent days, the King rarely argues with any advice that Gríma offers.

_I agree, my Lord, that your sister-son is a great asset to Rohan. Would you not prefer to keep him near? With your son so often far afield, would it not be wise to keep the Third Marshal in Edoras? In that manner, he will serve his King and country, and it will also allow you to keep watch on him, and make certain that he does not give in to the rash behaviour he has exhibited in the past._

Having the Lord Éomer near does make it more difficult for Gríma to observe the Lady Éowyn at his leisure - but it also ensures that Théoden King sees the discontent brewing in the young Marshal. And Gríma is delighted to discover that the King is not always aware of Lord Éomer as blood-kin. He takes full advantage of these confused moments.

_I do not like to speak so, but at times it seems as if he is defying your orders, and those of your son. I know he does not seem a scheming man, my Lord, but a clever man would not let such schemes be readily evident. I have heard the grooms whisper of an argument between Lord Éomer and Lord Théodred , in which Lord Éomer questioned the need to obey any orders which I presented on your behalf. It pains me to say , but I would keep careful watch on your Third Marshal._

Gríma is in the royal apartments, speaking to Théoden King of the borders. Lathwyn is silently finishing up her tasks - she has recently taken over all such duties, as the King's long-time chambermaid finally grew too old to tend him properly.

  _They have not bothered us overly in recent times, my Lord. In truth, I cannot remember the last time I received word of any hostile movement from the Dunlendings. Perhaps now is the time to send an emissary to them? If Rohan can gain Dunland as an ally, then there would be no need to have Riders guarding the Fords. The Dunlendings themselves could be charged with that responsibility._

There is a gasp from Lathwyn, and Gríma turns, ready to lash out at her for daring to interrupt his conversation with the King. But she is merely holding her hand and grimacing - she has spilled candle wax on her skin.  Pale-faced, she murmurs an apology as she carefully sets the candle on the King's side-table. She departs the room after making certain that the King needs nothing else, and, most curiously, she does not look toward Gríma at any time.

Ever since the Midsummer Festival, Gríma has been keeping a close eye on Lathwyn and Lord Théodred. He does not know what he thinks he senses, but his unerring nose for weakness tells him that there is something to be exploited.

Autumn is beginning, and the nights grow cooler. Gríma is approaching the King's chambers, to make certain that Lathwyn does not need more of the dwail potion. He hears quiet voices within the room, and stops, curious. The door is slightly ajar, and he sees Lathwyn in the Lord Théodred's arms. She is looking up at him with a warm smile on her face, and her eyes, reflecting the firelight, seem to glow. As Gríma watches, Lord Théodred traces the line of Lathwyn's cheek with light fingers, and she closes her eyes, leans into his touch, covers his hand with hers as he continues to caress her.

_I am almost finished here._

He leans down, kisses her gently _. I will be waiting._

Gríma is impressed with Lathwyn's soft, mild demeanor. In front of other eyes, she still appears indifferent to the King's son, does not even appear to know that he exists. But from what he has just witnessed, when they are alone, it is another story entirely. So this is how she has kept his attention, he thinks with some satisfaction. Playing hot and cold by turns, thereby making him uncertain as to her interest.

It never crosses his mind that perhaps she is not feigning.

 

 

 

 


	11. The Housemaid

Lord Gríma is speaking to Théoden King, as Lathwyn is lighting candles on side-tables. She hears everything that is said while she works, though as always she does not truly listen - that is the way of all servants.

She is nearly finished when the word  _Dunland_  catches her attention. Lathwyn realizes that Lord Gríma  is trying to convince Théoden  King to ally with Dunland, to allow Dunlendings to protect the Fords of Isen, and this notion sets her to trembling so badly that she spills wax from the candle on the back of her hand. She gasps at the pain, then quickly mutters an apology for disturbing them, even while inwardly she is still trembling. She makes certain the King needs for nothing, and leaves the room, trying not to stare at the King's advisor. As she departs, she notices a strange, cloying odor; she knows she should stop and try to find the source, but does not trust herself to be impassive if there is more talk of Dunland.

When she enters Théodred's chamber, he is sprawled face-down on the bed, still clad in boots and breeches. A closer look proves that he is fast asleep, and Lathwyn cannot help but be relieved, even if he has only today returned from the field. She does not want to explain to him why her mind is in such turmoil.

She carefully tugs off his boots - he does not so much as stir - and pulls the bedclothes over him. She considers what his reaction will be if he wakes to find her there, uninvited, and decides that she cannot bear to sleep on her own cot tonight. Lathwyn strips to her thin shift, and quietly slips into the bed. She studies Théodred's sleeping face a moment, notices a new bruise turning purple on his jaw and hopes it does not pain him too badly. She moves as close to him as she dares, for she does not wish to disturb his slumber. But then Théodred drapes his arm over her waist, drawing her nearer, though he does not truly wake.

Lathwyn does not dream of Dunland, as she had so feared, but of her grandmother. Not dead on the plains -- as she was in life, pleasant and willing to share her herb lore with a small granddaughter. It is not a nightmare, yet Lathwyn wakes with a feeling of panic, shivering as if from fever.

Théodred stirs, murmurs sleepily.  _Is all well?_

_It is only a chill. Go back to sleep, Théodred._

His eyes gleam in the dim light, and his next words are wide awake _. Shall I warm you?_

She reaches for him gratefully; he moves to cover her body with his, and the moment of panic is soothed away.

The conversation continues to haunt Lathwyn. She cannot imagine why the Lord Gríma  would suggest such a thing - does he believe that Dunland would ever forget its hatred of the Rohirrim? She is certain they will never do any such thing, and though she knows little about things political, Lathwyn is disturbed by the idea of Dunlendings keeping watch over such an important defense. She knows only too well what Dunlendings are capable of, will bear the marks of their misuse til her life's end. Lathwyn ponders speaking to Théodred of what she has heard, but is afraid that he would brush her worries aside as foolish.

She has grown more comfortable with Théodred as time has passed, and it has become easier to call him by name, as he has so often asked her to do. This clearly pleases him, and Lathwyn is mildly startled to discover that his reaction gladdens her. It is not the first time he has surprised her, however; he is not like the handful of men she has been with more than once. He does not lay a hand on her in public, knowing that such displays make her uncomfortable, nor does he force conversation when she has nothing to say. Théodred does not tell her that she is too solemn and should be merrier, and he does not accuse her of being unfeeling and cold, as many people - not only men - have done. He does confide his worries about his father to her, as well as concerns for his cousins, and she is both touched and proud that he trusts her with such unburdenings.

Perhaps most oddly to her experience, he has no questions about her past. He will trace the scars on her belly or back with gentle fingers or lips, but says nothing. Despite this, she cannot help but tense every time he touches her so. And he surprises her yet again one night.

 _I am never going to ask about these, Eledher._  He speaks softly, as if reading her mind _. Be at ease. I know where they came from._

She stares at him, for a moment speechless. _How do you know?_

Théodred's answer is wry _. I have been Second Marshal of the Mark for some time, you know. Who do you think Erkenbrand's men reported to, when they first brought you and the others here?_

As autumn sets in, Lathwyn becomes more anxious about the King's health. He does not eat enough, citing an ill stomach, and he complains of a dryness in his mouth and throat which will not be quenched. Occasionally, she has noticed that his eyes seem overly-wide, while his face is often flushed. Once or twice, while he is waiting for her to complete her duties, she has seen him leaning forward, hands working, muttering to no-one. Without fail, he calls her  _Théodwyn_  and grows very agitated if she calls him "my Lord". Théoden  King's manservant has noticed all these things as well, but he has yet to speak openly to Lathwyn of them, so she says nothing _._

When she goes to meet Lord Gríma's messenger, Lathwyn receives an ugly shock. She has not seen this man before. Not only does he squint at her disdainfully, and leer at her bosom in a most offensive fashion, he is clearly of Dunlending blood, and for a moment she freezes as he extends the packet of letters to her. How did he get inside the city gates? she wonders, fighting the dread that rises within her. Can any from Dunland simply stroll into Edoras unquestioned? Lathwyn masters her loathing, and snatches the packet from him, favouring him with a glare full of hatred she had forgotten she possessed. She can feel his narrowed eyes watching her walk away, and she has to restrain herself from running away from him as quickly as she can _._

She is so upset by this encounter that she considers asking the Lord Gríma  why he has hired a Dunlending for such errands, but of late, she has found herself hesitant to approach Gríma  for any reason. Oh, when Lathwyn sees him, there is still an initial stirring in the pit of her stomach, but then she recalls the advice she heard him giving to the King, and fear touches her. She has never listened to the idle servants' talk in the Golden Hall, thinking such chatter mostly idle rumour, but now, she begins to pay attention to what is said. She ignores anything she hears that cites Lord Gríma's "strangeness" as reason for suspicion -- she herself has been thought rather strange for her quiet, solitary manner, and does not hold whispers of strangeness against any person.

More frequently, she hears Lord Gríma's name spoken in resentment, as well as in mistrust and wariness. Lathwyn wonders why this is - until recently, she has only ever seen Lord Gríma  from afar, making certain that Théoden  King is attended every moment, serving the King with unswerving loyalty. Lord Gríma  has always been different in manner and dress than others in the court, and this is no doubt the source of some of the gossip Lathwyn hears of him. But she cannot forget Lord Gríma's words to the King, and they gnaw at her.

The Lord Dúnhere comes to the Meduseld, bringing with him his wife and daughter, and the Hall is cheerful and lively. When such banquets are held, all the servants who are not attending the kitchen will stand in the shadowed corridors to observe the dancing and merriment which comes after the meal. It is a tradition, and no-one is reprimanded, as long as duties are not shirked. Lathwyn stands with Liðides, and they watch, whispering between themselves. Once Lathwyn sees the Lord Gríma  watching the Lady Éowyn, and she has a bright flash of memory, of men staring at her in a similar fashion, and unconsciously, she shudders.

Her eyes are drawn to Théodred, and there they stay, for she rarely sees him like this. He laughs often as he talks to the guests, striding about the Hall with the confidence of the noble lord that he is. His hair shines in the torchlight like wheat under the sun, and, thinking of how it will feel to entwine her fingers in that hair later in the evening, Lathwyn cannot keep a proprietary smirk from tugging at her mouth. Liðides chuckles softly, nudges her in the ribs.

Then Lathwyn sees the look on the face of Lord Dúnhere 's young daughter, and her joy fades. The girl is beaming at Théodred, who is smiling broadly down at her, and the Lord Dúnhere  himself is wearing an look of hopeful satisfaction. As she watches, Théodred takes the girl's hand, bows low, and leads her to the middle of the hall, where they begin to dance.

Understanding hits Lathwyn so forcefully that it is as if she has been kicked by a horse: Lord Dúnhere  expects his daughter to marry Théodred. That is why he has brought her here -- to meet her future husband. She is younger than Lady Éowyn, but she is certainly old enough to be betrothed -- and Théodred appears to be quite taken with the girl.

Lathwyn cannot breathe, does not want to watch but cannot look away from the sight of someone else in the arms of the man who has been hers and hers alone since the first warm days of spring. Her heart clenches tightly in her chest; white-hot anger flashes briefly though her, and she does not understand. She has never pretended, even to herself, that her association with Théodred could be permanent, for he is heir to the throne, and she is merely a servant. But the sight of him dancing and laughing with Lord Dúnhere's daughter has shaken her more deeply than she would have believed possible.

By chance, Théodred's gaze meets hers over the girl's head, and he acknowledges her with the barest nod of his head and a furtive wink. She cannot muster so much as the ghost of a smile; instead, she turns, and hastens away from the Hall, and she does not hear Liðides' puzzled whispers.


	12. The Heir

Théodred enjoys Lord Dúnhere's presence, for the man is a friend as well as an able captain, and they have not spoken in far too long.

However, in the meetings Dúnhere has with the King, it is clear to Théodred that Dúnhere is shocked by Théoden's appearance. Théodred can also see that Dúnhere is taken aback by Gríma Wormtongue's involvement in such meetings, for the Worm does not limit himself to offering a bit of sage advice here and there, as he has done in the past. Quite the contrary - Gríma speaks as if  _he_ has the power to approve or object to any actions taken by the  _éoreds_ , and this attitude is reinforced by the King's disjointed murmurings.

After one such meeting, Dúnhere approaches Théodred.

  _I do not wish to overstep my bounds, my Lord Théodred , but I am concerned by the way Gríma brushes aside my concerns as to border security. He seems to imply that my concerns are baseless. Does he truly believe that Dunland is no longer a threat to Rohan, simply because they have been quiet for a number of months? I think it far more likely that the Dunlendings have gained an ally who does not at present wish them to harass us. Perhaps if I spoke to the King without Gríma being present --?_

Théodred does not know how to answer this without completely undermining any faith Dúnhere has in Théoden King. Yet he agrees with Dúnhere's assessment of the situation. Théodred has long resisted confiding his suspicions of Gríma to any lord of Rohan, though Éomer  has oft pressed him to do so; but now, facing a worried Dúnhere, Théodred knows that he must communicate something of these suspicions to the Lord of Harrowdale. The security of the  borders is of utmost importance. They must be protected at all costs.

_It is rare that Gríma is not present, Dúnhere, and I am not certain that a private audience would be of any use. I will speak to my father; in the meantime, I would advise that you do what you deem necessary to protect your lands. Defense of our borders is vital to the continued safety of Rohan. Use your best judgment. I have every faith in you._

Dúnhere regards Théodred for a long moment, as if uncertain he has heard the king's son correctly, and Théodred has time to wonder if he has made a terrible error. Finally Dúnhere speaks, and it is clear that he has understood what Théodred did  _not_ say.  _I thank you for your advice and confidence, my lord. Do not hesitate to call upon me if you are in need of support._

Théodred is aware, of course, of the other reason for Dúnhere's visit. He knows that Dúnhere is hoping that his daugher Salthaga will catch Théodred's interest. She is a pretty girl, to be sure -- all golden curls and bright hazel eyes, with a delicate way of moving and talking that is likely appealing to many men-- but she is younger than Éowyn, still just a child, really. Additionally, Théodred has no use for delicate women. He does not mind delicate  _manners_ , but Salthaga seems as if the wrong word might shatter her to pieces, and he would not want that in a wife. However, Théodred knows what is expected of him in these situations, even if he has no interest in Salthaga, so he is exactly as attentive to her as he needs to be. Fortunately, Éomer seems to find Salthaga genuinely appealing, so Théodred is relieved of much of his duty in the matter.

At the farewell banquet, Théodred dances with Salthaga. She is a skilled dancer, but this barely registers with Théodred. He is trying to keep his mind from rebelliously counting all the ways Salthaga is different from Eledher, for he has not danced properly since Midsummer. Salthaga is slender as a reed, Eledher is all generous curves; Salthaga's hands are soft as lamb's wool, Eledher's are roughened by a lifetime of work. Salthaga's voice is airy and bright; Eledher's is low and drawling.

These are obvious differences that any man would notice, of course. Less obvious is the fact that Salthaga does not move Théodred in any way. He smiles pleasantly at her, but she does not  _make_ him smile; as they circle the dancefloor, her body against his causes not even the faintest stirring of interest in Salthaga as a woman; he has no desire to know what her honey-coloured hair feels like, no curiousity as to how she might respond to a kiss placed on the back of her hand. It is almost as if he is dancing with Éowyn, rather than a potential bride.

He is sternly berating himself for such distracting thoughts when he sees Eledher watching from the darkened corridor with Éofor's wife. He risks a furtive wink and the barest nod of his head, and, to his confusion, Eledher turns her back on him and disappears into the shadows. He is only puzzled for a moment, then he understands what the stricken look on Eledher's face signified.

She is jealous. Yet Théodred thinks he cannot be right, for Eledher has never displayed any proprietory behavior. But he does not know what else would cause the strange combination of anger and confusion he saw in her eyes.

He is deeply irritated. She has to know that what is between them cannot be permanent. Eledher is not a fool-- she must know that one day he will have to put her aside and wed. And he is expected to dance and show such courtesies to a visiting noblewoman, no matter what age she might be. Surely Eledher understands that. Simply seeing him dance with a far-too-young girl cannot possibly be the cause of such a reaction in a woman who has never shown the slightest signs of possessiveness.

Then Théodred's annoyance fades. After all, she has never seen him with any woman other than Eowyn. And he has not dallied with another woman since Eledher first came to his bed. In truth, he has not had the inclination, for she pleases him well. If she is jealous, he has no one but himself to blame, for he has held faithful to her since spring, and she knows this. Thinking of the token he has been carrying in his tunic for days, Théodred has to reluctantly admit that he finds her jealousy peculiarly gratifying.

When the dance is finished, he leads Salthaga back to her pleased parents, and almost immediately, Éomer  approaches and claims the next dance, as Dúnhere and his wife follow suit. Théodred is left alone for a few peaceful moments, giving him time to mull over Eledher's behaviour.

It grows late, and presently all seek their beds, for Dúnhere wants an early departure the next morning. When Théodred goes to his chamber, he is not entirely surprised to find his bed, and in fact his entire room, empty. Quickly divesting himself of his formal attire, he goes to his father's apartments. Théoden, having retired sometime earlier, is already sound asleep in the inner chamber, and Eledher sits on the low-backed bench before the fire in the outer room, mending. As he quietly approaches her, Théodred realizes that Eledher is only pretending to sew. When he speaks her name, she does not look up, but her shoulders tighten at the sound of his voice.

He sits next to her, purposefully making certain there is at least half-an-arm's length of distance between them, and speaks quietly, almost apologetically _. I_  will  _have to wed one day,_  leofost _._

She still refuses to look at him, does not acknowledge the endearment, and her voice is a resigned whisper _. I know, Théodred. I have always known._

He studies her for a moment, trying to determine what it is that draws him so strongly to her. She is not learned, nor light-hearted; she is closed, and does not often willingly share herself with him other than physically. Certainly that is part of it, the unashamed pleasure she takes from him and gives him in return. But that is not all of it, and Théodred is becoming aware of this. Perhaps it is her strength, for he knows what it must have taken to survive her past. Perhaps it is that he finds his fiery nature is often calmed by her cooler one. Perhaps it is all of these things, or none of them. It does not matter, he decides, and reaches inside his tunic.

Eledher glances sideways at the motion, and now Théodred can see marks of recent tears on her pale face. She sees what he is holding on his palm, and she stares up at him, disbelieving. It is only a simple, braided bracelet, made from the tail-hair of his horse. It does not signify betrothal, or any permanent promise; it does not even necessarily indicate fidelity, though usually that is implied. It means only that an affection is being openly acknowledged, rather than assumed.

She looks at him closely, and he cannot even begin to interpret the expression on her face now. _You…you do not wish me to stay away?_

Théodred blinks at the odd tone in her voice, and realizes that he has blithely assumed she would be accepting of this gift, when there is the chance that Eledher would rather not continue their association.  He ignores the pang he feels at this possibility _. Do you_  wish  _to stay away?_

Her jaw tightens, and she stares down at the shirt in her lap, hands white-knuckled. At length, Eledher answers, the words seemingly forced out, as if she is afraid they will do her harm _.  No. I do not._

Momentarily Théodred is overcome with relief, and he reaches out to take her arm. She turns her head to watch as he deftly fastens the bracelet around her right wrist. Left is for mourning. Once it is secure, he takes her hand, and she entwines her fingers with his _._

_Will you come to bed? It is late._

When he wakes in the morning, Eledher is already gone, which is not uncommon. On the pillow next to him lays a narrow braid of her copper-tinged hair.

 

 

 


	13. The Advisor

The mood of the Meduseld has changed. Gríma has a vague idea that Lord Dúnhere's visit put this change in motion, but he cannot identify  _what_ , precisely, is different. Something tells him that he must keep a closer watch on Lord Théodred, and he obeys this instinct without question. It has never failed him.

Gríma wishes that he could have private speech with Lathwyn, without rousing suspicion, for he believes that she could give him some insight into the workings of Lord Théodred's mind. However, of late Gríma has noticed that Lathwyn, once childishly eager to please him and do his bidding, now seems to avoid him. He cannot be sure; she has little enough reason to be anywhere near him on a daily basis, so perhaps she is simply involved in her duties to the King.

Of course he has noticed the humble bracelet she now wears on her wrist; of course he has noticed that Lord Théodred also now wears such a token. Even if Gríma had not seen it with his own eyes, he would know, for every servant in the Meduseld is gossiping over this bit of news. He cannot be sure if this is some sort of ruse on Lathwyn's part, or if she is sincere in her affection for the King's son.

He is inclined to think the former, for on the rare occasions that the two are in the same room, Lathwyn ignores Lord Théodred as she always has in company, and surely she would not do so if she had honest feelings for the man. But once or twice, Gríma has seen Lathwyn unconsciously touch the bracelet, as if it gives her comfort, and the smile on her face, though fleeting, is strangely content. If she is sincere, there must be a way he can turn this to his advantage.

Gríma is on his way to the library when he hears low voices from one of the rooms. He stops, curious, for the rooms along this corridor are usually empty of any except the maids. Gríma realizes that it is the Lords Théodred and Éomer, and furthermore, they are arguing. He moves closer to the door, hoping to glean useful information from their discord.

_…an idiot, Théodred!_ Lord Éomer is clearly frustrated, and, to Gríma's surprise, Lord Théodred gives a weary chuckle, as if the argument has been going on for some time.

_She brings me joy, and a bit of peace, something I have found too little of lately. Would you deny me that, when every day things worsen, and death follows us so closely? But I did not expect to have your approval, Éomer, nor do I need it._ Lord Théodred's voice is gentle, yet matter-of-fact.

There is a long silence.  _You are a fool, Théodred . Nothing good nor lasting can come of this. You will only end up hurting her and yourself deeply._

_That may be true. But it is not your concern, cousin. And I do not wish to discuss it further._

Lord Éomer sighs. _Then shall we discuss Dúnhere and Erkenbrand? Have you had word from either recently?_

_We shall discuss it, but not here. Come, we will talk as we ride. It is the only way we can be certain that no-one is listening._

Gríma conceals himself into the room across the hall as he hears the two Marshals moving toward the door. He ponders to himself what he has just overheard. Not the argument over Lathwyn; that is disinteresting and predictable. No, Gríma wonders why the Lords Dúnhere or Erkenbrand would have need of private communication with the King's son. It is not usual for Rohan's lords to correspond with Lord Théodred without the knowledge of King or the King's advisor, but Gríma suspects that it is happening nonetheless.

This raises fierce glee within him, for he does not think Lord Théodred canny enough to keep secret all such contact. If Gríma can find a shred of proof that the Marshals are working against orders signed by Théoden King, and conspiring with these lords, then he has ample reason to order all four locked up and charged with treason. He resolves to send instruction to his men in Helm's Deep and Harrowdale this very day.

Gríma reads a letter from his master and does not understand its contents, for there is reference to information which he cannot remember seeing. He searches through past letters, and finds nothing. Furious, he goes to Théoden King's chambers.

Lathwyn starts when he slams open the door, and turns fromher task to greet him as he enters _. How may I assist you, my lo---_

He advances on her, and Lathwyn takes a step back, confusion on her face _. You may tell me what you've done with my letters._

Alarm glimmers in Lathwyn's eyes _. My lord? I .. I do not know what you mean…I delivered the packet to the library not an hour ago…_

_Not. Today's._  Gríma spits the words at her _. Those from yesterday, perhaps? Or the day before? I am missing a very important letter, and , as it is your duty to retrieve these items for me, I assume that you still have it in your possession. You had best not be keeping it from me…_ he moves closer to Lathwyn, and she backs still further from him, stifling a gasp as her hip collides with a tall, narrow table.

_Why would I keep such a thing from you, my lord?_ There is a barely-concealed note of panic to Lathwyn's voice, and her face has gone white. _I have no use for ---_

_I do not care if you have use for it or not,_  Gríma snarls, and Lathwyn flinches _. You are not my concern. The safety of Rohan is. And if you have compromised that safety with your incompetence, then you shall be the one suffer the consequences. Now, what have you done with it?_

Gríma is pleased at Lathwyn's obvious fear of him, and he is tempted to strike her, to emphasize upon her the magnitude of her error. If he were not certain that she would run immediately to the King's son with the tale, he would do so. But Grima is not foolish enough to abuse the woman for whom Lord Théodred has so recently proclaimed an affection.

_My lord, I do not know what you mean!_  Her voice shakes _. I have done nothing with your packets but what you bid me! I have delivered them all to the library, as you requested!_

Gríma's patience snaps, and he grabs her roughly by the upper arm _. Then you will show me,_  he orders, pushing her toward the door _. We will go to the library together, and woe betide you if what I seek is not there._

They proceed to the library, and Lathwyn goes to the shelf designated for Gríma's deliveries. There is nothing there, and she throws an anxious glance at him before beginning to search the other shelves. He regards her in silent anger, watching as she grows more and more frantic, and muses over what a suitable punishment would be.

_Here!_  The relief in Lathwyn's voice is unmistakable as she brandishes a packet with a trembling hand.  _It had fallen behind the books, my lord._

He snatches it from her hand, and she jerks away as if she is afraid he will bite her _. I will not stand for such lack of attention to your duties,_  he warns her _. If such a thing happens again, I can easily have you sent back down to the kitchens, is that understood?_

_Yes, my lord. I am sorry, my lord, it will not happen again._

Gríma favours her with a cold, measuring look.  _No. It will not._

In the safety of his office, Gríma reads all these letters, and understands now the reference to  _"our Gondorian friend"._ Saruman has a spy within the Steward's court, one that goes completely unnoticed, yet has access to all of Lord Denethor's most important councils. He wonders how Saruman managed such feat; Gríma himself tried to plant an agent in the Citadel, and found it impossible. There is also a great deal of information as to the inner workings of Gondor in this misplaced letters. Not for the first time, Gríma is greatly impressed with Saruman's resources, though he will never be foolish enough to let the wizard know just how impressed.

Gríma sits back in his chair, a small, unpleasant smile on his face, secure in the knowledge that he has, indeed, chosen the most powerful ally. And he is certain he will be well-rewarded for his part in Saruman's plans.

 

 

* * *

 

 


	14. Interlude - Winter

**The Housemaid**

The winds scream across the plains. Rohan is pounded repeatedly with storms of snow and ice, making for one of the worst winters in recent memory.

Conversely, it is one of the most enjoyable seasons Lathwyn can recall. The severe weather keeps everyone in Edoras; Théodred has issued orders that none of the  _éoreds_  should venture out except in the most dire of circumstances. Three Riders -none of them young nor untried --were lost in the last blizzard, and he will not risk losing more. As a result, Théodred himself is a constant resident of the Meduseld, and this pleases Lathwyn more than she will admit.

Lathwyn has not spent one night in her own bed since the last days of summer, when Théodred invited her to make use of his room, even while he was on patrol. She likes waking next to him, likes feeling protected by his very presence. Lathwyn knows that this is a part of her attraction to Théodred -- he makes her feel safe, and that is all she has ever wanted.

That is not  _all_  of the attraction, of course. Théodred is caring toward Lathwyn as no-one has been in long years, as well as being an attentive lover, and she has noticed that she is more at her ease, when he is in Edoras. Now when she dreams, it is not of Orcs, but of her long-dead family. She dreams of her grandmother's teachings:  _hyssop for colds, meadowsweet for an aching head, chamomile or pudding grass for women's complaints, but use pudding grass only sparingly, and do not give it to a breeding woman, for it can cause her to cast out the child._

Although these dreams are not nightmares, Lathwyn awakes with a deep sense of unease. She does not know why - her mother's mother was a kind woman who never spoke a harsh word to her grandchildren.

Lathwyn does not relay the incident with Lord Gríma to Théodred, for she does not think it worth mentioning. Rather, she finds it odd that Lord Gríma did  _not_  strike her -- she fully expected him to do so, and saw by the look in his eyes that he very much wanted to. She knows that she was the one at fault. If she had not been so careless with Lord Gríma's correspondence, he would not have grown so angry.

Lord Gríma was correct; she had been lax in her duties, and she will not disappoint him again. Of course, with the weather, no couriers have come to Edoras in many weeks, so it is nothing she has to worry about at present.

However, although she is not aware of it, Lathwyn keeps her distance from Lord Gríma , unless it is unavoidable. She is only distantly aware that she has grown wary of Lord Gríma's mild tempers, just as she was once wary of Cynat's calm moods. In Lathwyn's experience, a volatile man in a placid mood is suspect.

Théodred sees the bruise on her hip.  _Did I do that?_  he asks in surprise.

Lathwyn chuckles, lazily combing her fingers through his hair.  _If_  you  _did that, there would be a bruise on the other hip as well, would there not?_  Théodred flashes a grin in reply as he lightly kisses the mark.  _I was not paying attention, and ran into a table._

He is satisfied with this answer. He is, at the moment, occupied with the soft white skin of her belly, and does not notice the mark on Lathwyn's arm til much later.

Liðides catches Lathwyn alone.  _Are you sure it was wise, accepting that from Lord Théodred?_

Lathwyn looks at the bracelet on her wrist, then back at Liðides, puzzled.  _Why should I have refused him?_

_Eledher, you are not a fool. You know that princes cannot form permanent attachments to women like you or me. Why would you bring such pain upon yourself? Soon he must wed, and he will have to put you aside._

_Then should I not hold to him while I can?_  Lathwyn asks quietly.

Liðides studies Lathwyn for a long moment, and Lathwyn prepares herself for an onslaught of disapproval. But instead, Liðides says nothing, only lays her hand on Lathwyn's arm, and her eyes are full of sympathy.

Though she is pleased to have Théodred near for more than three or four days at a time, Lathwyn sees that he is greatly annoyed at his inaction. He begins to spend more time with his father, and this does not improve his temper any. Many evenings, before they retire, Théodred will rail against the weather, Gríma, the state of Rohan, the unfairness of old age, and occasionally his lord cousin before finally exhausting his frustration.

Lathwyn says nothing most nights; she knows that he feels utterly helpless in the face of all these things, most particularly his father's decline. There is nothing she can say to ease that, no matter how it might pain her to see Théodred in such distress.

~*~

  
Some mornings, when one rises, the other is already gone. 

  
Some mornings, they stir within moments of one another.

  
Some mornings, Lathwyn wakes first, and watches Théodred as he sleeps. She lets her gaze roam his face, the dark golden hair spilling across his wide shoulders, and wonders why she resisted him for so long. Sometimes she will coax him awake by gentle touch, or by covering his body with hers; sometimes she is content just to look at him and does not think about anything but how satisfied she is to be there next to him.

  
Some mornings, Théodred wakes first. He likes to watch her come awake, for when she first sees him next to her, a warm, pleased smile curves her mouth, and her sleepy eyes light up. He does not think that she knows she does this, and she never does it at any other time. Sometimes, he will urge her to wakefulness with fingers or mouth; sometimes he will simply stroke her back, from the nape of her neck down the length of her spine, as if she were a cat, until she wakes, and smiles at him.

**The Heir**

Before the weather turned so cruel, Théodred received word from Dúnhere and Erkenbrand. Both agree that Gríma's intentions are not in Rohan's best interest; both admit that they are both made uneasy by the King's dependence on Wormtongue. Dúnhere is easier to convince than Erkenbrand his uncle, but in the end, both reluctantly acknowledge that the Second Marshal was correct in his assessment of the situation - if the lords of Rohan do not take matters into their own hands, the safety of the country is forfeit. 

Théodred has every faith that both lords will do what they think best to protect their lands. He has sworn to take all responsibility for their actions upon himself, should they be discovered. It pains Théodred to countermand orders signed by his father the King, but he does not know what else to do. He can still find no proof that Gríma is allied with any known enemy, he cannot convince his father to ignore Gríma's counsel, and he will not allow Rohan to be more vulnerable than it must. Some days, Theored is filled with self-loathing, for it feels as if he is betraying his father; other days, he knows his father would be grateful for all that his son and Marshal is doing.

They are lying together, sated and drowsy, when Théodred notices a bruise on Eledher's arm, a bruise in the clear shape of a hand.  _Who has treated you so roughly? I would speak to him._

She raises her arm and looks at it curiously.  _It is of no matter -- I did not even know it was there_.

_Of no matter? I know that in some halls women are mistreated so, but I will not allow it the Meduseld. If someone has laid hands on you, I would know who, Eledher._

_It was an accident,_   _Théodred_. She is half-asleep.  _It has not happened before -- you would surely have noticed if it had._  
  
This is true, of course. He is in a position to take note of any such marks on her body, and he has seen none before tonight. She seems so unconcerned that Théodred thinks he must be overreacting. Surely if some man were troubling Eledher, she would come to him immediately.  _You must tell me, if it happens again. I would not have you fearful for your safety in my own hall._

Her smile is unexpectedly tender as she lays her hand on his cheek.  _Of course I will tell you. But how could I be fearful for my safety,_ leofost _, when you are so willing to shelter me?_

This too-rare display of emotion moves Théodred, for he knows how hard such words come to Eledher. He catches her hand in his, pressing a kiss into her palm. She gives a little sigh of contentment, laying her head on his shoulder, and he falls asleep with her warm body nestled comfortingly against his own.

Théodred is not a man who is used to being mewed up inside for long periods of time. He knows that there is nothing else for it; during such harsh conditions as these, Orcs will not stage attacks - they will simply let nature do their killing for them, and loot such villages when spring arrives. But Théodred still feels as if he is neglecting his duty.

As winter drags onward, he finds himself more easily irritated. He tries to find ways to keep occupied. He orders one of the smaller halls to be turned into a temporary salle -- there are too many weather-bound Riders to conduct weapons practices in the smaller, permanent building -- and this gives the restless men an outlet for their energies. There are still disagreements over everything from women to the portions of food at meals, there is a great deal more drinking than usual, and at least once a fortnight, men will come to blows over some petty thing.

Théodred and Éomer do their best to keep the peace, but the cousins find it difficult to make it through a meal without growling at each other. There is no one thing over which they argue; it is just the tension of being so long indoors, unable to carry out their sworn duties to king and country. Éowyn has begun ignoring them, if she happens upon her brother and cousin together, for she is fed up with their constant arguing.

 _I am sorry that your men are discontent_ , she says testily to Théodred,  _but I cannot give your boredom sympathy, cousin. Now you know how I feel nearly every day of my life, except that you do not have Gríma watching you as if he owned you._

Fortunately, since both Marshals have been confined to the Meduseld, Gríma has not been watching Éowyn as openly; in fact, Gríma seems to barely notice Éowyn. Théodred is grateful, although he is sure it is an act. He is not certain that he could have -- or would have -- kept Éomer in check, had Éomer decided to confront Gríma about this.

Théodred's mood is worsened by the fact that he has taken to spending more time with his father. Observing Théoden so closely, Théodred can see that he has been a fool in thinking that the King will ever improve. He is not ready to give his father up for lost, but Théodred must force himself to recognize that Théoden will never again be the proud, hale man who once strode these halls with such confidence. Now, Théoden cannot walk from his rooms to the Hall without support; now, Théoden is often not aware of his son's presence, even when it is Théodred providing such support; now, more often than not, Théoden defers to Gríma  before speaking a single, garbled word.

And of course there is Gríma , a malevolent shadow trailing behind Théoden always. Théodred watches Gríma carefully, scrutinizing every word and movement for some scrap of evidence that Wormtongue is plotting against the throne. Idly Théodred wonders what would happen if he simply drove his dagger through the man's throat. But without proof of treachery, it would be assassination, and he cannot do such a thing.

Additionally, Éowyn has confided her suspicions that there is some sort of bewitchment at work, and Théodred must acknowledge the possibility of this -- Éowyn's instincts are good, and she has spent a great deal more time in the King's presence than her brother or cousin. If it is true, then there is no telling what the reprecussions might be to the King, if Gríma were dead.

The King's lucid days come less and less frequently, and many days it is all Théodred can to do keep from roaring his anger to the entire city. Bare-knuckled sparring and practice bouts with the sword help ease some of his tension, but still, he is always on edge. One evening, while Eledher carefully combing snarls from his hair, Théodred snaps at her.  _That hair is attached to my head, you know!_

Her hands still.  _I may not be used to riding free on the plains, Théodred, but I do not like being forced to stay inside for weeks on end any more than you do._

Startled at her sharp tone, he turns in the chair to face Eledher. He sees, with a pang of guilt, that she is angry at him, and she is right to be so, Théodred thinks ruefully.  _I am sorry,_  he tells her,touching her hand. _I did not mean to take my ill-humour out on you. It is just -- I am finding it difficult to keep my temper these days . The very walls seem to press in on me_.

Something in her face eases.  _I know that it is not easy for you, but it is not easy for anyone else, either._

Chastened, Théodred promises that he will not speak to her so again. Later, he realizes what that odd expression on her face was. For a moment, Eledher was afraid of him - afraid of how he would react to her anger. He rebukes himself fiercely, for he would not have her ever be frightened of him.

**The Advisor**

Gríma is tense, as for most of the winter, he has been out of contact with Saruman. Of course the storms are to blame, but Gríma is concerned that Saruman will be angry. He does not truly think that Saruman will consider him false for not being able to send messages, but during the small silent hours of the night, Gríma wonders if his master's wrath will be visited upon him. As do all residents of Edoras, Gríma longs for spring. He cannot bear to be so in the dark; needs Saruman to know that he is still faithfully carrying out his given duties. But no courier arrives, and so no such word can be sent.

Gríma's patience is also pushed to the breaking point by the relentless presence of the Lords Théodred and Eomer. His every move is watched by the two Marshals. Lord Théodred has begun to pass a large part of each day with the King, and Lord Théodred's loathing is an almost tangible thing. Gríma is almost tempted to forego his meetings with Théoden King entirely - after all, it is not as if there is anything to discuss, as news from any part of Rohan is slow to come, and uninteresting when it arrives.

But he cannot, even though the constant scrutiny is driving him mad - that would cast further suspicion on him. And the young lords are already far too suspicious. Gríma supposes it must be fortunate that he can not receive any word from Saruman, for strange couriers arriving with letters would be looked upon with deepest mistrust, and a Hall full of bored, twitchy Riders would be only too happy to interrogate such a messenger.

Gríma  is surprised that the Lord Théodred never confronts him about any incident with Lathwyn. He had been certain that the woman would run to Lord Théodred immediately, bleating that Gríma had mistreated her. But apparently she did not, and he finds this very interesting. Lord Théodred is not the only person in the Meduseld who remembers the circumstances which brought Lathwyn to Edoras, and Gríma wonders if Lathwyn has kept quiet out of fear, or because she thought it nothing out of the ordinary.

The King does not seem to be worsening, but he also does not seem to be any better, and Gríma  must restrain himself from demanding if Lathwyn has been administering the dwail potion regularly. It would be pointless, for if she had been, Théoden King would be nearly at death's door. Gríma is not at all certain that he would be able to keep himself from flying into a rage if Lathwyn admitted this.

If the Lord Théodred were not in residence, he would confront her, but he is walking a thin line, as far as the heir is concerned, and cannot afford to make any missteps. Again he thinks that this is perhaps fortunate; if the King were to die now, there would be no way for Gríma to seize control and hold the throne until Saruman could act. For one thing, he does not have the promised men at his command; for another, it must wait til warm weather returns, and all the fighting men are gone from Edoras, so that resistance will be minimal.

The storms have slackened dramatically, and in the space of seven days, the weather shifts from brutal to tolerable. The Lords Théodred and Éomer ride forth with their men, and, though they are only gone part of a day and have nothing of interest to report, they return in high spirits. Spring cannot be far away, and the mood in the Hall is much lighter.

Gríma is seeing the King safely ensconced for the night -- this seems to happen earlier with every passing day-- and he is watching closely to see if Lathwyn pours a measure of potion. He notes her take the vial from her pocket, and, satisfied, turns back to the King, who is drowsing by the fire.

_My lord, your Marshals say that all is well outside of the city walls. Soon we shall be able to communicate with the lords of Rohan, and see how they have fared this season._

Gríma is feigning his pleasure at the news; he must always keep up the pretense that he cares what has happened to other cities and villages.

A crash makes him jump, although the King barely moves at the noise, and Gríma  turns to see what that clumsy woman has broken. He sees the King's goblet and a metal tray on the floor. The spilled wine is spreading, and Lathwyn has yet made no move to clean the mess. She is simply looking at the puddle, entire body rigid and motionless. With blinding certainty, Gríma  knows that somehow, the fool has realized what she has been giving the King.

**The Housemaid**

Lathwyn has been strangely distracted all day. Again she has dreamed of her grandmother; again she does not understand why she awoke so disturbed. She dresses in silence and slips out of the room before Théodred can see her confusion.

As much as Lathwyn enjoys having Théodred on a nightly basis, his agitation at being restricted makes her nervous and short-tempered.. After just half a day in the field, she can see the difference in his mood, and she is deeply relieved that the weather has finally taken a turn for the better. Soon he will be gone for days on end, which will be odd after the idle days of winter, but a tiny part of her is thankful. She knows he will be much happier, and much easier to live with once he is regularly patrolling the lands again.

Lathwyn is preparing the King's nightly cup of wine, and cannot avoid putting the dwail in, for Lord Gríma is watching her like a hawk. She sighs to herself; she does not see the point, for she has never noticed that it brings the King any relief from his painful joints.

Lathwyn carefully measures out one drop, hearing Lord Gríma's long-ago voice in her head --  _One drop only, for dwail is very potent_  -- and swirls the contents of the cup to mix the two liquids. She places the goblet on the serving tray, and, as she turns to take the cup to the King, she suddenly hears another long-ago voice in her head.

 _Dwail is an old name for nightshade_ , her grandmother whispers.

The tray falls to the ground from her nerveless fingers. She stares stupidly at the spreading pool of wine, red as blood against the stones of the floor and panic are rising within her and she is certain that she is going to open her mouth and scream but she does not, cannot even draw a breath. She is frozen in place with horror. Her mind is shrieking.  _  
_

A hand closes around her arm, and Lathwyn gasps as she tries to jerk away, but Lord Gríma  is too strong for her. His face is contorted with rage and hate; she has not seen a man look at her with such a vicious expression in more than ten years, and cold, hard fear overrides the panic. He knows that she knows.

_Say one word to your Marshal, and I swear to you, you will be back in Dunland within seven days._

She tries to summon up some reply, but Lord Gríma's words have left her utterly without defense. He continues, eyes shining with malice.  _Do you think that he would believe you? Do you think that anyone will take your word over mine? I am Advisor to the King -- and you are just a glorified kitchen whore._

From somewhere, Lathwyn finds a bit of strength, and tears her arm from Lord Gríma's grasp.  _You cannot -- you cannot …_

 _I cannot what?_  Lord Gríma's sneering face is inches from hers.  _There is nothing that I cannot do, you fool. Tell the King's son, and you will see what happens to you. You will see what happens to_  him _._

Lathwyn is shaking; terror has its tight hand around her throat. She knows that he is not exaggerating; even one as naïve in politics as she knows that the Lord Gríma has control over the King, and therefore can do nearly anything he likes. And she has no doubt that he would have her carted back to Dunland in a heartbeat; that he would kill Théodred, given a chance.

A cry escapes her, and vindictive triumph comes across Lord Gríma's face. Lathwyn cannot bear to be near him any longer, and she flees. She does not go to Théodred's room, oh no -- instead she goes to the library, for she knows no-one will be there. She hides herself in a dark corner, and weeps brokenly, sobs shaking her body.

She knows that Lord Gríma is correct -- his word will be taken over hers. She is of no importance; she has no rank and no honour, as far as men are concerned, for she is just a woman, and a common woman at that. Théodred will not believe that she did not know what she was doing, not after so many months. She will be alone, and there will be no-one to protect her from his rage, or that of his cousins and all the Riders in Rohan.

  
And the letters -- oh, what is in those letters that she has been delivering so trustingly? What else is she guilty of?

The glass vial presses hard against her thigh, and she shoves her hand in her pocket, meaning to smash it against the wall -- but she stops, seeing there is still a mouthful left. For a long moment she stares at the deadly liquid, and she knows what she must do.

 

 


	15. The Heir

The harsh weather has broken, and the tension of winter has lifted. After a short foray into the plains surrounding Edoras, the Riders are much more cheerful, knowing that their confinement has come to an end, and they celebrate all through the evening.

Théodred and Éomer are talking in a side corridor, the sounds of merriment in the hall providing cover for their speech.

Théodred is speaking quietly. _He said that they had uncovered a spy in their hall. But he thought it best to leave the man in place._

Éomer nods.  _Better to know who is against you, than rid yourself of such a man and have to worry about a replacement._

_Exactly. Though I am surprised that the news came so quickly. The weather has been bearable for only a few days._

_Likely he thought it important enough to ----_

_My Lord Théodred ?_

The cousins turn, and Eledher is standing there. Théodred is startled, for she rarely approaches him in public. Not only that, but she is pale, agitated, and her red eyes betray the fact that she has recently been weeping.

_Eledher? What is the matter?_ He is concerned, for he has never seen her in such a state.

_I would speak with you privately, my lord._  Her voice is tight.

Éomer looks at Eledher, reproachful.  _We are in the midst of a discussion --_

Eledher interrupts Éomer, though Théodred can see it goes against her nature to do so to a man of Éomer's standing.  _This will not wait._

Éomer gapes at her, and for an instant, Théodred is sure that Eledher's news is that she is with child.

But then she adds, _Perhaps it would be best if you heard this as well, my Lord Éomer_ , and Théodred knows that he is mistaken, for she would have no reason to include Éomer in such a conversation. He does not know if he is relieved or disappointed.

Éomer looks as if he is going to say something unkind, but Théodred stills him with a glance.  _What reason is there to wait? Come._

Though it is a short distance to Théodred's room, he notes that Eledher repeatedly scans the hallways, as if afraid she is being watched. Dread stirs within him, and he cannot say why. Once inside, he starts to go to Eledher, to comfort her if he can, but she makes the smallest movement away from him, and he stops, puzzled.  _What is this all about? Why are you so distressed,_ leofost _?_

Eledher does not meet his gaze, nor does she look toward Éomer, who seems both curious and annoyed. She sits carefully in one of the side chairs and folds her hands together in her lap. She begins to talk, staring at her feet, not once looking up.

Théodred finds that he must sit to keep from falling down. His mind reels. This cannot be true. She cannot have been a part of this, of his father's decline and the passing of information to enemies. She must be mistaken in what she thinks she has been doing -- Théodred readily believes that Gríma would do such things, but he cannot believe that Eledher would be involved in Gríma's schemes in any way. Not this woman who has spent so much time caring for the King and worrying about his health; not this woman who has spent so much time in Théodred's bed, and who wears the token of his affection.

Then she produces a small glass vial and a handful of letters from her pocket, extends them to him, and he is so taken aback that he cannot move to take them.

Éomer takes the letters, opens the first one, scans its contents, and Théodred knows from his cousin's expression of horror that every word Eledher has said is true. He looks at Eledher as if he has never seen her before. She is white and trembling, so clearly frightened that despite himself, he feels a stab of protective sympathy for her.

Then Éomer wordlessly shows him what is in the letter, points to the small white hand at the bottom of the page, and rage takes over. Théodred leaps to his feet, stalking toward Eledher, who shrinks into the chair but makes no attempt to elude him. Now she is looking at him, eyes filled with self-loathing and terror, but Théodred does not care.

_You have been poisoning my father._  His voice is shaking, and he is dimly aware that Éomer has come to stand beside him.

_I know._  She is not defensive, only resigned and scared. 

_You have been passing important information to enemies who would use it to destroy Rohan._

_I know._

_That is treason._

_I KNOW, THÉODRED! I KNOW!_  Eledher screams,  _screams_  at him, coming out of the chair, and Théodred is momentarily shocked from his anger by this. He can see that Eledher is shaken by the violence of her emotions, and she slumps back into the chair, voice strained, but now at a normal level.  _Do you think I do not_  know  _that? Do you think I do not understand how serious this is? Do you think that I do not_  know  _that you could have me imprisoned, or exiled, or executed for this?_

_Then why tell us?_  Éomer speaks for the first time, and he is oddly composed _. Why put yourself so at risk?_

Eledher gives a hysterical sob that is almost a laugh.  _Because I did_  not  _know what I was doing. I do not expect you to believe me, but it is true. I did not know. Do you think I would have done it, if I knew? And I cannot make amends for this situation on my own._

Théodred breaks in, takes a step toward Eledher. She recoils.  _How long? How long has this been happening?_

She swallows visibly, and her voice breaks when she answers.  _Since -- since I first began to tend to the King._

_Almost a year._ Something inside Théodred snaps, and he springs at her, swift as a snake striking, but Éomer is quicker yet to put himself between them.

_Theodred, no! No --_ Éomer pushes Théodred away from Eledher, who is covering her face with her hands.  _No, you can_ not _\--_

_Why do you stand there and tell me 'no, you cannot'?_ Théodred snarls, trying throw off his cousin's hands, but Éomer's greater weight makes it difficult.  _You heard what she has said! She has freely admitted that she has been poisoning my father -- the King -- and -_

_Theodred, come with me._ Éomer's seeming calm gives Théodred pause.  _Come -- I wish to speak to you alone. Come, leave her for now._

 Théodred allows Éomer to steer him toward the corridor. Y _ou. Stay here, he orders. If you leave -_

Eledher gives that strange laugh again.  _Where would I go?_

The moment the door to Éomer's room is closed, Théodred rounds on his cousin.  _Why did you stop me? Do you not think that she deserves whatever happens to her?_

_Theodred._  Éomer's voice is steady, and he does not flinch in the face of Théodred's anger.  _Do you honestly think that she_ did  _know what she was doing?_

_Are you_ defending  _her?_ he takes a menacing step toward Éomer, who does not move.  _What happened to your certainty that she is a common slattern?_ Théodred is viciously mocking.

Éomer takes no offense. _I do not approve of your association with her,_  he admits _, but that does not mean I think she is capable of assassination. The Worm has fooled people far wiser that your_ lufestre _, Théodred, including your father the King._

_Do not call her that_ , Théodred snaps as he paces the room.  _She is no longer anything to me --_

_I do not think that prudent._

_Éomer, I very much wish to strike someone right now, and if you do not stop talking as if this of no matter, it may well be you._

Éomer does not seem in the least cowed _. You have not answered my question. Do you think she knew what she was doing?_

Théodred stops in his tracks, glaring at his cousin, but Éomer only stares back placidly. Then Théodred understands something. Earlier, when he leapt at Eledher, she had not been covering her face to hide tears -- she was protecting her face from whatever damage he might be preparing to do to her. She had made no effort to evade him. She was perfectly willing to let him strike her; in fact, from her posture, she expected him to do great harm.

With a glimmer of shame, he realizes that he cannot honestly say that the impulse was not there. If Éomer had not stopped him, Théodred does not know what he would have done.

But even knowing this, as Théodred is convinced Eledher did, still she came to him; still she had the courage to lay the entire matter at his feet, and was prepared to withstand whatever his reaction might be. He does not think this the action of someone who had intentionally contributed to the downfall of both king and country. It seems more the action of a woman who knew that she had made a terrible error, and knew she must set things to rights, no matter what the cost might be to her.

Furthermore, if he sets his fury aside for a moment, Théodred knows that Eledher is strangely innocent in some things. She understands being the brunt of hostility, and knows that men can be physically cruel, but she would not neccesarily sense if she were being used in a more subtle way.

Théodred runs a hand over his face. _No,_  he admits, shoulders sagging _. I do not believe that she knew what she was doing. You are right; many wise men have been taken in by Gríma's ploys. And -- she is many things, but Eledher is not wise in the ways of manipulation._

_Are you certain of that?_ Éomer's words are carefully expressionless, and Theodred throws his cousin a puzzled glance.

_Say what you mean, Éomer._

_Is it not possible that she is confessing because she has realized how dangerous Gríma is, and wishes to have your protection from him? Because she knows there is a greater chance of receiving mercy from you?_

Théodred glowers _. A moment ago, you said you did not think her capable of assasination. Now you are suggesting that she is working with the Worm? Which is it?_

Éomer sighs, crossing his arms over his chest.  _I do not think her concern for the King's health is feigned. The fact that the King yet lives seems to support her claim that she did not know she was poisoning him. She cannot read, so she had no way of knowing what was in those letters. But that does not mean she has not been working with Gríma in other areas._

_Such as?_

Éomer shifts uncomfortably _. Such as you, Théodred._

Théodred stares at his cousin, aghast. _Are you…you are suggesting that she relented on Gríma's orders? For what purpose? It is not as if she has ever tried to harm me -- or could._

_All I know is that she refused you for months, only to begin chasing you all over the Hall. And shortly after that, she began tending your father._

Théodred sits heavily on the edge of Éomer's bed, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach _. There would be no point,_ he says with such force that Éomer actually takes a step back. _It is not as if I have ever spoken to her of matters of the realm. You have made it very clear that you think she is unworthy of my attentions, Éomer, but I can see no point in Gríma's ordering her to -- seduce me._

Éomer says nothing for a moment, then plows ahead _. This is the point,_ he says, motioning to the two of them. _How many times have you and I had words about your connection with her? Has it not affected the way we speak to one another? Do you think that Gríma would balk at using a woman to create conflict between us? It is working even now, cousin._

Théodred is silent. He cannot reject this idea out of hand, as much as he might wish to. _You…are right,_  Theodred admits reluctantly. _Gríma would certainly take any chance to create strife between you and I. But I -- I do not want to think on that right now. Right now, it is more than enough to know that she has caused my father to become a ruined old man before his time. That in itself -- I do not know that I can forgive that, no matter how unknowingly she acted._

It is only when Éomer relaxes that Théodred sees that his cousin had been very, very tense.  _That is understandable,_ Éomer says quietly, going to lay a hand on Théodred's shoulder _, for he is your father, and you love him dearly, as do I. But I do not think you should break with her, at least not in appearance._

Theodred narrows his eyes at Éomer, still too much in turmoil to follow what his cousin is saying.  _Were we not just speaking of how it is better to know your spies? If she is willing, she would be a great asset to us in gathering evidence against Gríma. But you must act as if nothing has changed, for that to be a successful plan._

Théodred regards his cousin for a moment _. When did you become so level-headed?_

_When you became so hot-headed._ Éomer's grin is wry, and fades quickly.  _You are not as easy to rouse as I, cousin, but you are much longer in calming your temper. And we cannot afford to have you in such a state. If Gríma suspects that we know what he has been up to, then you, and I, and your woman, will all be at risk._

_I told you not to call her that._ Théodred heaves a weary sigh, every muscle suddenly aching.  _But you are right. She could be of help to us -- and in this way, we will be able to keep a watch on her actions as well.  We can make certain she is not simply play-acting in order to save her own skin.  And if she is_ not  _willing to help , then I will persuade her to_ be  _willing._

Éomer winces at Théodred's hard voice, but says nothing.

Eledher starts from the chair when they return to the room, watching them as warily as a rabbit might watch a wolf, but she does not speak. Éomer remains silent also.

_We believe that you were not aware of what you were doing._  This is the first thing that Théodred says, and Eledher looks as if she might weep with relief.  _But that does not earn you forgiveness, nor trust._

_I have no right to either, or to your belief,_ she says softly, and Théodred ignores the way her raw vulnerability tears at him.

_My cousin has a way that you may help to repair some of the damage you have done._

Eledher glances at Éomer, and from her obvious surprise, Théodred guesses that Eledher has been fully aware of Éomer's disapproval.

Éomer explains what he and Théodred have in mind. She will continue to seem as if she is giving the potion to the King, while giving him something else entirely; she will continue to carry Gríma's letters. But now she will tell the two men when such letters are departing, and when they arrive, so that they may read them before they are delivered. And she will report everything she hears pass between Gríma and the King.

Eledher listens, then speaks timidly _. But soon you will be both be gone, patrolling. Who then shall I speak with?_

Éomer says,  _My sister. She will help us with this; she has more reason be rid of Grima gone than any of us._

_Are you willing to do this?_ Théodred cannot help but ask.  _Can you act as if nothing has changed? If you cannot --_

_Of course I am willing,_ she says with odd dignity.  _I will do what I can, if it will help untangle this web. If I cannot act as if nothing has changed, then Gríma will find a way to send me back to Dunland_. Eledher's voice wavers in fear.  _I would rather be dead than return there. And I - I do not wish you to come to harm._ She speaks this last so quietly that Théodred can act as if he has not heard.

_Very well. Then we will act as if none of this has happened. Only my cousins will know. To everyone else, we are still --_ Théodred searches for words  _\--as we were._

Eledher's hand steals to the bracelet on her wrist, and she bites her lip as she nods her comprehension. The expression on her face is familiar, and, after a moment's thought, Théodred places it. He had seen that look more than once on a very young Éowyn, when she was doing her best not to cry, for fear that someone might think poorly of her.

_If that is settled, then I believe I shall return to the hall._ Éomer turns to go, but comes to a halt when his cousin suddenly speaks.

_Did Gríma tell you to lure me to you?_ Théodred had not planned to ask her that question, for he does not truly want to know the answer. But he cannot restrain himself, and so awaits her reply.

Eledher will not look at him _. Does it matter now?_

_Yes._ Her avoidance is answer enough, but Theodred will hear it spoken.

Her voice is lifeless, subservient.  _Not…not so directly. He…he merely suggested that you might appreciate a…distraction._

Théodred expects to be infuriated by the admission, but instead, he has gone cold. He can think of nothing to say to her, nothing at all.

_A distraction from what?_  Éomer demands, and Eledher starts at his voice, as if she had forgotten he was there.

_From…from his nightly councils with the King._ Her voice is so low that the men must strain to hear it.

Theodred stares at her blankly, unwilling to accept what she has said. Her eyes are fixed on the floor, and he cannot catch her gaze to see what he might be able to read there. But he does believe her. He is numb in both mind and body, and he can find no words, adequate or otherwise. There is just -- emptiness.

_Let us go, cousin_ , Theodred says at length, and his voice is harsh and unfamiliar to his own ears. He does not want to be near her any longer, and Éomer obligingly opens the door to the corridor. As they exit the room, Eledher begins sobbing, so quietly that both men can ignore the sound, and leave her alone with her remorse, if remorse it is.

Éomer goes to tell Éowyn all that has happened, and Théodred proceeds to get very drunk. He was not lying; he believes that Eledher had no idea what she was doing, knows, in his heart, that she would not willingly put the King in such danger. But he cannot help feeling angered. He cannot help wanting to blame her for everything that has gone wrong in the past year.

And even if she is guiltless in the matter of poisoning the King, she is not innocent of playing him for a fool. In this, if nothing else, she is deceitful, and he must question everything she has said to him over the past year. He wonders if all her soft words murmured in the dark were given to her by Grima to speak, if all the endearments she has spoken to him were simply hollow mockings, if she has been laughing at him behind his back for months. He is stunned by how deeply she has wounded him in this alone.

Théodred does not know what he will do, when he must retire for the night. Eledher will be here -- she must be, to keep up the facade -- and he does not want to be alone with her. He is no longer afraid that he might physically hurt her, but he does not know what he might say, without Éomer's presence to inhibit him.

Éomer finally pulls Théodred away from the ale, and escorts his cousin back to his room. Théodred is unspeakably grateful that he says nothing about Eledher.

He finds her asleep on one of the low-backed couches. He studies her for a long time, taking in her tear-stained face, making no move to comfort her when she murmurs uneasily in her sleep. He knows from experience that Eledher will be sore when she awakes - the couch is not comfortable. But at that moment, Théodred cannot care enough to wake her, or move her to the bed, though it is certainly wide enough for two people to sleep in without touching. At this moment, he would be happy if he never laid eyes on her again.

 

 

 


	16. The Housemaid

He rarely speaks to her these days, when he is in Edoras.

The evening after Lathwyn reveals her unintentional participation in Gríma's plans, Théodred comes to her while she is going about her duties. She is startled that he has even approached her, for he is clearly still very angry.  _I would apologize to you. I …I lost my temper, and I did not mean to frighten or threaten you._

She stares at him, perplexed. No one has ever apologized to her for losing their temper, especially when it was warranted _. It is of no matter. There is no need for –_

He cuts her off, a bit brusquely, as if he wishes to have this over and done with.  _There_ is _need_.  _It was very ill-done, and I apologize._

Lathwyn does not know what else to say; she does not think she deserves an apology. But she sees that Théodred is deeply troubled by his loss of control, so she merely nods and says,  _Thank you._

Two evenings after, he says,  _There is no need for you to sleep on the couch. It is still too cold at night._ He says this indifferently, as if it is no concern of his.  _It is a large bed – we will not disturb one another._

That same evening, when she has undressed down to her shift, he asks,  _What is that on your arm?_

Lathwyn looks, and again sees a hand-shaped bruise that she had not even known was there.  _It is nothing._

_Did Gríma do that?_

She hesitates, then nods.

Théodred's eyes sharpen.  _The other bruises – those were his doing as well?_

She nods again, laying down on the bed with her back to him, carefully staying close to the edge of the mattress.

Silence for a moment.  _Why did you not tell me? Did you think I would not offer you protection?_

There is something odd about his voice – Lathwyn cannot tell if Théodred is angry or offended or hurt by her failure to confide in him.  _You are not always here. He is._

He makes no reply, though Lathwyn senses his displeasure in her answer.

That is the last time he speaks to her of anything beyond Gríma's interactions with the King for weeks, and usually, he lets Lord Éomer or Lady Éowyn question her.

Lathwyn is not foolish or fanciful enough to think that she cannot live without Théodred, but she is lonelier than she can ever recall being. She misses him, even when he is right there on the other side of the bed. In truth, that is when she misses him the most, for in the past, when they retired for the night, he would tell her of his day, and talk easily with her, whether she responded in kind or no.

Now there is only empty silence between them, and she knows that it is her own doing. She cries herself soundlessly to sleep some nights, hearing Théodred's relaxed, rhythmic breathing, knowing that he has cast her off in spirit, if not in appearance, and she finds that harder to bear.

Fortunately, Théodred begins to spend time at Helm's Deep and Harrowdale. Part of Lathwyn wishes he would return to Edoras more regularly, but part of her is glad that she does not have to face his expressionless gaze more often. This way, she can pretend, at least for a little while, that he is just gone on patrol, and that nothing has changed. Lathwyn knows this is not true. She knows that he is needed in the Westfold - now that spring has come, Orcs and Dunlendings alike have renewed their raiding. But she also thinks that he is staying away in order to avoid her.

She cannot reveal what has happened to anyone, of course. Liðides has noted that something is not right; Lathwyn can see it in her eyes, though Liðides does not press Lathwyn for details. Of those who know, only the Lady Éowyn talks to her, and even if Lathwyn were the type of woman to confide her heart's troubles to another, it would be most improper for her to do so to Lady Éowyn.

And something about the Lady Éowyn makes Lathwyn uncomfortable. She is not sure why - the Lady Éowyn is not accusatory,  nor short-tempered when she speaks to Lathwyn. In fact, Lady Éowyn often seems to be sympathetic, even understanding, though Lathwyn cannot imagine this perception is correct. Why would Lady Éowyn be kind when her brother and cousin are so openly hostile?

Gríma has begun pressing Lathwyn for information that she does not have and never did. He questions her as to what Théodred tells her about the state of the country when they are alone, and every time, when Lathwyn says she knows nothing, Gríma's eyes grow black with suspicion and displeasure. She is terrified that she will give something away, but realizes that Gríma assumes her fear is entirely due to his own presence.

One day, while he is berating her, Lathwyn can not stand it any longer.  _He tells me no more than you do!_ she snaps, though her heart is in her throat at defying Gríma so.  _Why would he, when I am nothing more than a glorified kitchen whore?_

Gríma goes completely still, and Lathwyn knows she has pushed him too far. When he speaks, his voice is dangerously quiet.  _Then what is this?_ he asks, running a fingertip over the bracelet on her wrist, and revulsion tingles down her spine. _He has had kitchen whores before, and never has he given one such a token._

_He…he does not trust me,_  she says, the truth of it twisting her stomach _. He speaks of nothing but petty matters. This is…this is simply to mark me, so no other man will approach me._  Lathwyn's eyes burn with angry tears wanting to be shed, but she clenches her jaw against them. She will say nothing that would give Gríma an advantage against Théodred, no matter what might happen to her.

Gríma regards her carefully, and seems to come to a decision.  _Of course he does not trust you_ , he says, almost fondly.  _Why would he?_

As she always does when Théodred is away, Lathwyn sleeps on his side of the bed. The  faint smell of him on the linens is still comforting, though now it pains her, as well. But it is the only way she can fall asleep, so she buries her face in his pillow, and hopes she does not dream.

 

 

* * *

 

 


	17. The Advisor

_The woman of whom I have spoken is cooperating upon threat of removal to herself and others. She is easily managed, and may provide other useful information as well, given her proximity to certain parties of interest. All is well in hand._

Gríma reads these lines again, as always looking for any word, any fragment that might positively identify himself as the writer, or those of whom he writes. Satisfied that his wording is vague enough to prevent such identification, he seals the letter with plain red wax.

He has begun lingering about the King's chambers in the evening, keeping a close eye on Lathwyn. He is not concerned that she will go against him; she fears both Dunland and harm to Lord Théodred too much. And it is clear that she is frightened of Gríma himself.

This pleases him, for Gríma knows what a potent weapon fear is, and he takes satisfaction in seeing how she bends to his will. Before, Lathwyn was as obedient as any proper servant; now, she shrinks on herself when he is near. Before, she was impassive, never letting her feelings be known; now, her emotions range from utterly submissive to barely-repressed anger. It is most amusing to watch.

The King is still vague and often hallucinatory, but he is occasionally lucid, though these incidents are rare and far between. One night, when Lathwyn brings Théoden King his wine, the bracelet on her wrist catches his attention.

 _Is that from Éomund?_  he asks. His smile is reminiscent of months past, and Gríma is stricken with the unreasonable worry that perhaps the King is overcoming the poison. Then reality asserts itself -- there is no cure for nightshade poisoning.

Something leaps in Lathwyn's eyes -- sorrow or pain -- but she only nods, wordless.

 _He is a fine man_ , the King nods, reaching for the goblet.  _You would do well to accept him._

 _He is a fine man,_  Lathwyn agrees quietly, for if she does not respond as if she is Théodwyn, Théoden King will grow quite upset _. But I cannot accept what he has not offered._

The King smiles again, and absently pats Lathwyn's hand. His next words are wholly unintelligible as his mind slides back into the fog.

Gríma continues to press Lathwyn for information. He knows that men can be careless in their speech, when they are sated and in the arms of a willing woman. Lathwyn insists, without fail, that the Lord Théodred does no such thing. He does not believe her, until one night she lashes out.  _He tells me no more than you do!_ _Why would he, when I am nothing more than a glorified kitchen whore?_

He considers this for a moment, letting his anger at her disrespect simmer.  _Then what is this?_ he asks, running a fingertip over the bracelet on her wrist.  _He has had kitchen whores before, and never has he given one such a token._

The piteous expression on her face gives him the answer before she speaks.  _He…he does not trust me._   _He speaks of nothing but petty matters. This is…this is simply to mark me, so no other man will approach me._

Gríma studies her, takes in her appearance -- eyes cast down, shoulders hunched forward in exhaustion, dark circles under her eyes-- and reluctantly decides that she is being truthful. Her explanation makes sense. Lord Théodred  has been quite possessive of his other temporary partners; it is logical that he would mark her so. It is also logical that he, of all men, would not speak of important matters to a chamber wench..

 _It appears that she cannot provide information,_  Gríma writes _. However, she is still of value, for the party seems honestly attached, and can be coerced by threat of danger to her._

Gríma  hopes this is true, for he has sensed discord between Lord Théodred and Lathwyn. Perhaps it is just a quarrel between lovers, for he has not cast her off, nor barred her from his chamber for even a night. But there is tension, that Gríma knows. He wonders if this has something to do with the fact that he has seen the Lady Éowyn speaking to Lathwyn more frequently. Even over the long, tedious winter, Gríma had not seen the two women speaking more than a handful of times, usually in the King's chamber, and assumed that this was because Lady Éowyn though it unseemly to converse with a common woman who was sharing the Heir's bed.

But now he sees Lady Éowyn and Lathwyn together almost daily, and one night, he asks Lathwyn,  _What business have you with Lady Éowyn?_

 _She is worried that I am not tending her lord uncle properly,_  Lathwyn replies, nervous and tense _. She also wishes for me to give her lord cousin reason to put me aside, for she is…disdainful of me._

That is likely; Lady Éowyn is very proud of the House of Eorl, as she should be. It is the things that draws Gríma to her -- her unfaltering loyalty to her line, for it will serve him well, when the time comes. Gríma is surprised that Lady Éowyn's disapproval has not come to the fore sooner; however, Lady Éowyn is still young, and perhaps has only just realized the depth of her cousin's foolish attachment.

Now that the Marshals are more often away from the Meduseld, Gríma  can once again observe Lady Éowyn at his leisure, and this, to him, is the true dawning of spring. Now he may sit by the side of the feeble King, acting as dutiful advisor, and let his gaze roam over Lady Éowyn as he pleases. Her beauty warms him, gives him strength and confidence, keeps him company on those long, dark nights when he cannot sleep for seeing her face in his mind. He longs to see her smile turned on him, radiant and welcoming; dreams of having her fair white hand touch his cheek.

Of course this is just fantasy now; she is no less contemptuous of his attention than she has ever been. This does not daunt him. The Lady Éowyn is meant to be his; Gríma's faith in this fact is unshakable. She will be his, and he will treat her as the queen she will be, once he prevails. Gríma  knows that obtaining Lady Éowyn's regard will not be an easy battle, but he  _will_  obtain it. She will see that he is no-one to be trifled with, and then she will give him the respect he so richly deserves. She will relent to his advances, one way or another.

A letter from Saruman sends Gríma into a fit of anger-laced panic.

_I have seen no western progress beyond correspondence; I am informed that certain parties are in secret communication with others further away. You insist that she will be useful, yet I have had no report that she is being used to her full potential. Is this what you call having things "well in hand"? I have made allowances, due to the severity of winter, but that season is past. Do what you must, but I am losing faith in your self-vaunted power. If you can not rectify these situations, then we shall need to revisit our agreement._

.Surely Saruman must know that Dunland is a delicate situation; Gríma cannot simply demand their alliance, for the Dunlendings still doubt that Gríma is scheming against the King. If he is too harsh, they will simply attack Rohan, foolish as that course of action would be. The Dunlendings are not known for their subtlety. He knows that Lord Théodred  is corresponding privately with Dúnhere and Erkenbrand, but the Second Marshal has proved very clever in his concealment of this. This, too, is a situation that must be handled with utmost care. One wrong move, and the Lords Théodred  and Éomer will joyfully separate his head from his shoulders.

More worrying is the notion that someone is informing Saruman of all of these actions. There is only one conclusion Gríma can draw -- Saruman has his own spies in the Meduseld, watching, relaying everything that happens. Gríma is not foolish enough to believe that Saruman trusts him fully, for Saruman trusts no living soul. But it infuriates Gríma to be treated as any other minion, for he has been faithful to Saruman, ever working for the wizard's triumph. It infuriates him to be spied upon as if he were a wayward child in need of guidance.

Of course Gríma can do nothing about this anger. Even if he uncovers Saruman's spies, he cannot remove them, for that would certainly bring swift retaliation from the wizard. All he can do is obey, and to that end, sends a terse letter to Dunland.

_I have been advised that if you do not ally willingly, there will be consequences. Do not think your actions are unknown - my master's vision stretches far,  and if he is displeased, he will not hesitate to act._

Gríma has never fully understood why Saruman does not deal with the Dunlendings himself, as Isengard is much closer to Dunland than is Edoras. He supposes that Saruman wishes to keep his intents hidden as long as possible; there is always the possibility that Gandalf Greyhame can be persuaded to ally with Saruman.

He comes upon the Lady Éowyn in the King's chambers. Lathwyn is nowhere in sight.

_You are lovely, as always, my lady._

Éowyn favours him with a cool glare that would fell most men in their tracks.  _Such words from you are naught but lies. I have made it very clear that you are not to speak to me, and yet you persist. Are you so eager to find yourself at the point of a sword?_

Gríma moves a step closer to her. Éowyn's nostrils flare in distaste, but she does not fall back.  _And whose sword would that be? Your brother, who rides in the East? Your cousin, who is occupied with the middle lands? Certainly not your uncle. Why must you reject the protection I would offer you?_

Lady Éowyn's eyes fairly blaze.  _Your protection, as you call it, would see my kin drowning in their own blood. You are the only person in Edoras from whom we need protection. And do not forget, Wormtongue, that I have a sword of my own, and the keys to every room in the Meduseld. Do not think yourself safe behind a locked door ._

Her defiance only heats Gríma's blood. It will be a pleasure to bring her to heel, once she is his. He does not take her threat seriously -- she is strong, and capable, but she is but a woman nonetheless, and will not act without the permission of her male kin. He reaches for her hand, and she pulls it away, though she still holds her ground.

 _My lady.._ he begins in his most persuasive tones, but then the door bangs open, and Lathwyn enters, arms full of clean linens.

 _My lady, these are far more suita ---_  Lathwyn breaks off, eyes wide at the scene in front of her.  _I…I am sorry -- I did not mean to intrude._

 _You are not intruding,_  Lady Éowyn snaps _, Gríma was just leaving, for my uncle has been left alone for far too long._

Gríma knows he has pushed her temper as far as he can, and he departs with a deep bow. The image of Lady Éowyn's face, cheeks flushed with anger, stays with him throughout the rest of the day, and when finally he seeks his bed, it is long before his tension eases enough for him to sleep.

 

 

 

 


	18. The Siblings

**The Third Marshal**

Éomer tells Éowyn all that has happened, and she says,  _Oh. Well, that explains several things._

Éomer stares at her.  _That is your reaction? 'That explains several things'?_

 Éowyn gives Éomer the cool, appraising look which always drives him mad.  _What should my reaction be? I cannot say that I am surprised._

_What do you mean, you are not surprised? Are you trying to say that you suspected something like this was happening? Why did you not --_

_No, Éomer, I did not --and do not -- think that Eledher was working with Gríma, as you seem to. Although I admit, I should have suspected that he was using her in some way. It is exactly the kind of vile behaviour at which he excels, and she is easily led. She would not question his directions._  Éowyn is thoughtful, but not upset, and Éomer is confused.

 _I did not know that you knew her so well,_  Éomer mocks, his temper starting to get the best of him now that he does not need to keep Théodred calm.  _Since when do you call her Eledher?_

Éowyn narrows her eyes.  _Since I was eight, Éomer. And I appear to know her better than Théodred does, if he could not see how vulnerable she is to such manipulations._

Though her superior, faintly accusing tone galls him, Éomer does not wish to argue with his sister at this time, so he turns the discussion to what will happen in the future. She agrees that the best thing to do is to act as if nothing has changed, and further suggests that Eledher might be less intimidated if she speaks largely with Éowyn herself. Éomer thinks this a good idea, but warns that Théodred  will not be so amenable.

 _Of course he will not_ , Éowyn shrugs, and Éomer can see she is irritated.  _His pride is hurt, and he will want to hear every thing she has to report, so that he can remind himself how badly he has been treated._

He is startled at hostility in his sister's voice.  _There is a bit more than pride at stake here, Éowyn. Théodred  and I both do believe that she acted unknowingly against the King. But she has deceived him in acting as if she cares for him, and that shows she is the type of woman who would --_

 _You are hardly the most objective observer,_ Éowyn snaps,  _as you have been quite disdainful of her from the beginning. And Théodred  is the second-biggest fool in Rohan if he thinks she is the kind of woman who would -- or could -- feign affection where she feels no such emotion. It is his pride which hurts him, Éomer. I am not saying it is not immediately warranted, but if he carries on as if he is a victim, then I shall swiftly lose all patience with him. This is not all about Théodred._

Éomer does not understand why Éowyn seems to take this so personally, or how she could know Eledher so well, but it is late enough that he does not want to ask her. So he leaves her, and goes to conduct Théodred  to his room.

In the following weeks, Éomer thinks back on this conversation more than once, though he does not let Éowyn know. He watches Eledher carefully, when she reports the interactions between Gríma and the King, as well as watching Théodred 's reactions to her. Éomer has no difficulty believing that his cousin's attachment is true -- he had noticed that Théodred  had become somehow steadier over the past months -- and his natural inclination is to side with Théodred  in this matter. Of course Théodred 's pride is wounded -- what man's would not be at discovering that his  _lufestre_  pursued him at the suggestion of an enemy?

But Éomer begins to consider that perhaps he has been wrong in his unwavering scorn of Eledher. When he asks - at Théodred 's suggestion - that she try to obtain letters from months ago, Eledher does not protest this as hazardous, as it certainly is. She merely says,  _I will try. But I do not know if he keeps them in his office or his room, so it will not be a quick task._

And for all that she says it will not be quick, in less than a fortnight, she has produced such missives for examination. He has no idea how she has obtained these letters, which Gríma must certainly keep hidden. She volunteers no information, nor does she complain that they are overburdening her.

Éomer notes that when he sees her, which is rarely, now that the weather is warm, Eledher seems constantly exhausted, overly tense, much like a man who has been too long on in the field. But she makes no excuses, and does as they ask, pointing out the couriers as they arrive, relaying all conversation between Gríma and Theoden, no matter how seemingly unimportant, to all appearances unconcerned with her own safety in this very dangerous matter.

Théodred has begun spending a great deal of time at Helm's Deep, and Éomer is more frequently in the Meduseld than his cousin. Every day, it is becoming more and more difficult for Éomer to keep from simply killing the Worm where he stands. He hates seeing his uncle so unmanned and weak, hates Theoden's garbled, nonsensical speech, hates that he can as yet do nothing to rid his country of Gríma's malevolent influence.

And Éomer's restraint is pushed to the edge by the way Gríma's eyes crawl over Éowyn. He knows precisely what repulsive thoughts are in Gríma's mind when he looks at Éowyn so, and Éomer longs to smash the man's skull beneath his boot heel for daring to think such things. He knows it is only a matter of time before they find the evidence to reveal Gríma as a traitor, but Éomer is not certain that he can keep himself in check until that happens.

He overhears Gríma questioning Eledher, and he is not startled at the Worm's malice. The man is nothing but vermin, and will stoop to anything to further his own ends. However, Éomer is shocked by the emotion in Eledher's voice when she says,  _He…he does not trust me._   _He speaks of nothing but petty matters. This is…this is simply to mark me, so no other man will approach me._

There is something in the way she speaks which makes Éomer think that Eledher believes what she is saying. She believes that all she has ever been to Théodred  is a talented bed-partner. Eledher sounds hopeless and defeated, as if she now has nothing left to lose, and therefore does not care what happens to her.

He speaks with Eledher later, on the pretense of asking her if any more letters have been delivered.  _I overheard Gríma speaking to you earlier. Does he always treat you so?_

 _Yes, my lord._  She is always wary when Éomer speaks to her, and he cannot blame her for that. He knows that Eledher is aware of his feelings toward her.

_Is he…does he still threaten your safety?_

Eledher frowns, clearly confused by Éomer's question.  _Of course he does, my lord,_  she says, as if this should be obvious.

Now Éomer is puzzled, and a little angry.  _He believes that my cousin -- the Heir to the throne -- is attached to you, and yet he dares threaten you?_

Eledher regards Éomer silently for a moment, and it seems as though she is searching for words.  _He believes that your lord cousin has only one use for me,_ she says at length, and again Éomer hears that defeated note to her voice.  _He believes that Lord Théodred  would not waste his energy defending someone like me._

Eledher looks away, but not quickly enough. Éomer sees the expression in her eyes, and realizes that this is what she believes as well. Despite his disapproval of Eledher, Éomer cannot help but feel pity for her, particularly since he cannot in good faith reassure her fears. He thinks that Théodred  would protect her from Gríma, but his cousin has been acting so oddly of late that Éomer cannot be certain. Disturbed, he speaks to Éowyn of this.

 _I wish you would say these things to Théodred ,_  she says with some exasperation _. He will not listen to a word I say, for he thinks me still a child. Of course Eledher is hopeless, Éomer. She has no one to turn to, and thinks that Théodred  has abandoned her to Gríma's mercies. All she wants to do is correct her mistakes, and Théodred  will not acknowledge how she is risking herself. He is blinded by his pride, and I have all but given up trying to make him see._

  _I do not know that he will listen to me either,_  Éomer admits.  _You are right; his pride is keeping him from seeing how harshly he is treating her. I still do not think their association proper, but this …does not seem honourable._

Éowyn shakes her head.  _And has it occurred to either one of you that we are acting no better than Gríma, in using Eledher this way to further our own ends? Our motives may be noble, but -- Éomer, I do not like how we are using her. She would not think to question us, either. She will simply do as we ask, and take any consequences that may fall upon her._

This has occurred to Éomer, for when he overheard Gríma and Eledher, he himself had been on his way to interrogate her. And this is unnecessary -- over the past weeks, it has become clear that Gríma is discussing nothing of interest with the King, at least in Eledher's presence. Bracing himself for an eruption, he says as much to Théodred .

However, to his surprise, Théodred  agrees.  _It is of no use,_  Théodred  says, staring into his ale.  _What useful information we have gathered is entirely from those letters. If only we could link them definitively to Gríma! But he is clever, and will never say anything that will allow him to be identified. All we have is Eledher's word, and no council of lords will take that over the word of the King's Advisor. But you are right - we should not subject her to such questionings any longer._

Éomer is caught off guard by the faint hint of wistfulness in Théodred's tone when he speaks of Eledher, but he is also emboldened by his cousin's reasonability. Cautiously, Éomer tells Théodred  of what he overheard, as well as the resulting discussion with Eledher and part of the conversation with Éowyn.

Théodred  listens, face impassive, but Éomer catches a fleeting glimpse of something unnamable in his cousin's eyes.  _Of course we have not abandoned her to Gríma_ , Théodred  says, frowning.  _Does she think we are so cruel?_

Éomer hesitates a moment.  _We have not_ told  _her that we will give her protection,_ he says carefully.  _We have_ told  _her nothing; we have simply interrogated her and demanded that she do as we say, in order that she may prove herself loyal. It is…it is not entirely fair, cousin._

There it is again, that unidentifiable gleam. This time, Théodred  does not say anything; he only retreats into a troubled silence that is becoming more and more his usual behaviour.

**The Shieldmaiden**

Éowyn remembers being very young, watching a skittish girl with a badly bruised face, and wondering if she had been thrown from a horse. The kitchen women rarely thought to hold their tongues when Éowyn was near, so soon she realized that someone had done that to the other girl on purpose. Shortly after, Éomer had found his sister crying in a corner, and Éowyn had been too young to articulate what had upset her so.

After that, she kept distant watch on the other. She overheard someone remarking upon the strangeness of the name _Lathwyn_ , and worked up the courage to ask the bruised girl her birth-name. Éowyn had been very proud when the older girl had answered the question, thinking that she was the only person who knew that birth-name was  _Eledher_.

Since then, Éowyn has always been aware of Eledher, whether directly or peripherally. As time passed, Éowyn came to see that Eledher was not like the other kitchen women. For a time, when Éowyn reached adolescence, she was wholly contemptuous of Eledher and her much-discussed proclivities, but as Éowyn grew older, she has found deep sympathy for the older woman. She remembers the long-ago chatter of the servants, and knows that Eledher's past was not easy. She understands the pain of losing parents, even if she cannot begin to comprehend the life Eledher led with the Dunlendings.

Of course she would never consider one of the maids a friend, but Éowyn sees and hears more that happens with the servants than her cousin and brother do, and she has observed Eledher for years. Éowyn has always suspected that Eledher does not feel secure;she can see hints of this in Eledher's silence and subservient posture, in the way Eledher holds everyone at arm's length and confides in no-one. The other women servants often call Eledher cold and heartless and unfeeling; even Liðides has done so. But Éowyn thinks that Eledher fears for her safety, even in the Meduseld.

And Éowyn knows, as perhaps no-one else in Rohan does, what that is like.. Since she was old enough to grasp what lay behind Gríma's eyes, Éowyn has felt vulnerable, though she has done her best to hide it. This is part of what has driven her to take up the training of a Shieldmaiden - she wants to be able to protect herself from whatever may come. Sometimes she feels disloyal, for taking this task upon herself rather than trusting to her male kin -- but they are not always in residence.

Gríma is constantly there, skulking in shadows, whispering malice disguised as wisdom into the ear of her uncle the king, and she can do nothing to stop him. She and Éomer and Théodred  tried many times to make Theoden see Gríma's duplicity, but they were unsuccessful, and now her uncle has been reduced to a grim ruin of his former self, a weak man who is barely able to string a coherent sentence together.

Gríma's gaze swarms over her skin as if he has every right to look at her so, and some nights Éowyn cannot sleep, despairing that she -- and Rohan --will never be free of him. But it would not be fitting for a woman of Eorl's house to be so cowed, so she is defiant, cold, as strong as she must be, for there is nothing else she can do to defend herself. Her brother and cousin do not understand what it is like, to fear a man in the place they call home, but she knows Eledher does.

When Éomer comes to Éowyn, and tells her all that has happened, it is all Éowyn can do to keep from finding her cousin and berating him. She understands his initial burst of anger -- Théodred 's temper, once roused, is a fearsome thing, long to cool, and Eledher's admissions would of course send him into a rage. But Éowyn wonders how he can have spent so much time with Eledher, and  _not_  understand?

Éowyn certainly does not understand why Théodred  would doubt Eledher's heart. It has been clear to Éowyn for some time that Eledher is sincerely attached to the Heir. Although Éowyn does not entirely approve, for after all, Eledher is very common, she cannot say that she disapproves, either. Éowyn knows, of course, that the relationship cannot last -- she is realist, not a romantic -- but she thinks it good for both of them. She sees that Eledher is less withdrawn that she once was, and more tellingly, that Théodred  seems less restless.

Knowing Eledher first came to Théodred  by subtle coercion saddens Éowyn, but does not make her think that Eledher's attachment is any less true. The mere fact that Eledher has let someone, anyone slip past her guard is revealing, for Éowyn cannot remember Eledher ever having done so before. But Éowyn restrains herself, knowing that it will do more harm than good to lecture Théodred  at this point, but she also knows that she will not be able to remain silent on the subject for long.

Éowyn is relieved to have something active to do against Gríma, and throws herself whole-heartedly into trying to interpret hidden meanings in his correspondence. She grows impatient with having to hurry through each letter, and decides it will be easier to simply copy the contents of each, so that she and her kin may study them at length. Eledher guards the door of the library while Éowyn's quill flies over the parchment, and, while the other woman does not argue with this course of action, Éowyn can see that Eledher is made very anxious by the extra time it takes.

She cannot blame Eledher - each moment the chambermaid spends in watching the library door is a moment she is not at her duties - but it is necessary. Éomer and Théodred  both are pleased with the results, and they spend any free hours they have locked up in Éomer's room, pouring over each missive. Théodred  also takes copies of these letters with him when he goes to Helm's Deep, so that Erkenbrand and Dunhere will have the same, vague knowledge.

Éowyn's annoyance with Théodred  is growing daily, for all that she has not seen him often these past weeks. Théodred will swear that he holds Eledher blameless in the matter of poisoning the King, and Éowyn believes that this is so, but she thinks it unreasonable that her cousin will not even consider the possibility that his conduct toward Eledher is less than fair. He seems to be determined to think that he is the only one who has been injured in these happenings.

And it is not as if Théodred  notices that his youngest cousin does not speak to him. He prefers to spend his time at Helm's Deep. Éowyn is sure that Théodred  is needed there, but it worries her nonetheless that he is isolating himself so. When Théodred  does return to the Meduseld, he spends more time in a heavy silence which neither she nor Éomer can penetrate.

As the weeks pass, Éowyn can see that Eledher is growing more and more uneasy with her role in this plan. She still tends to the king with scrupulous care, and uncomplainingly carries out what orders she is given, but she seems uncharacteristically emotional, and often looks as if she has recently been ill. Éowyn feels sorry for Eledher, but does not know what she can do to ease the other's tension.

 _Is all well?_  Éowyn asks one day.

Eledher looks startled by the question.  _Aye, my lady._

_You seem…is there something amiss? Has Gríma been mistreating you again?_

_He has not laid hands on me, if that is what you mean._

Éowyn sighs inwardly at Eledher's blank expression.She did not expect Eledher to pour her heart out, but Éowyn had hoped that a show of concern might lead the other woman to share something of what has been troubling her.

 _If he grows too spiteful -- if he_ does  _lay hands on you, I would have you tell me._

Eledher winces, as if Éowyn has said something which pained her. _To what end, my lady?_

 _So that he may be kept from doing so again, of course,_  Éowyn replies, irritated with Eledher's seeming lack of perception.

Eledher hesitates.  _And who would keep him from doing so?_ she says finally.  _The Lord Éomer is oft afield, and the Lord Théodred_ \-- her voice falters for an instant  _\-- the Lord Théodred  has other matters with which to occupy himself. They have no time to concern themselves with something so trifling._

Éowyn is stricken by the bleakness in Eledher's eyes.  _Do not be foolish. Of course they --_

Eledher interrupts Éowyn, which is another shock.  _My lady, Gríma can do nothing to me that has not already been done_ , she says.  _I do not expect anyone to risk this plan for me, and complaining about Gríma would surely do that, as I have never done so before. Do not trouble yourself._

Éowyn thinks that this matter-of-fact statement in to be comforting but instead, it sends a chill down her spine in its quiet resignation. She is also troubled by the fact that Eledher seems to think that she must accept any ill-treatment with nary a word of protest.

 _I would have you tell me,_  Éowyn repeats, frustrated.  _We are not asking you to do this because you are being punished,Eledher. You simply have the most access to Gríma's secrets. But if you feel you are in danger from Gríma, then we will find another way to accomplish our goals._

A puzzled frown passes over Eledher's face, but all she says is,  _Thank you, my lady. I will keep that in mind._

This is all Éowyn can do; she cannot assure Eledher that all will be right in the end, for it may not. She cannot tell Eledher that Théodred  will forgive her, for Éowyn does not know that he will. It infuriates her to think that her cousin is so hard-hearted, but Éowyn knows that Théodred  can be ruthless, if he thinks he is in the right.

Éomer comes to her one night, and they discuss Théodred 's odd behaviour. It is very unlike their cousin to keep such emotions to himself, and Éowyn thinks it is only Théodred 's pride that holds him back from admitting that perhaps he is acting selfishly. She is surprised when Éomer reports that Théodred  agrees they should stop pushing Eledher for information on Gríma's dealings with the King, and is curious when Éomer tries to explain what he could not identify on Théodred 's face. She wonders what this signifies, and hopes that it means that their cousin is starting to realize that he has been acting deplorably toward the woman he has claimed to have feelings for.

Éowyn is hurriedly copying a letter when movement catches her eye, and she glances up, distracted. Eledher is standing in the doorway as always, but today she seems strangely relaxed. Oh, her back is still rigid, and she still has her arms wrapped around her waist, as if she is protecting herself from someone-- but there is something intangible which has changed. It is as if Eledher has fully let go; of what, Éowyn cannot begin to guess.

She turns back to her work, but a suspicion begins to grow in the back of Éowyn's mind.


	19. The Heir

Théodred is grateful that he is needed at Helm's Deep, for Edoras is not the refuge that it once was. At Helm's Deep, there is no-one questioning his actions, no-one berating him for his conduct; there is only strategy and the duties of his title. He loves his cousins, but of late, he is uncomfortable around them. Éowyn is particularly unsettling; it has been weeks since he has had a civil word from her. She expresses her opinions on his behaviour toward Eledher rather forcefully, and Théodred has begun avoiding her when he is at the Meduseld. Though Éomer is not as strident in his speech, Théodred can see that he, too, is troubled by Eledher's role in the plan to snare Gríma.

Théodred himself is conflicted. Though she has cooperated uncomplainingly with every request they have made of her, and though she has allowed useful information to be found in intercepting Gríma's letters, his resentment toward Eledher lingers. He does not speak to her unless it is unavoidable. Théodred is still hurt by the fact that she came to him at Gríma's instigation, rather than because of his own persistence. He is bewildered, for never has any woman needed encouragement to come to his bed beyond a suggestive smile or a broad wink.

He knows it is pride that stings him so, and that to let that pride control his actions is childish, but the possibility that Eledher has no feeling for him when he has so clearly declared himself to her holds him back.

Théodred makes the grave mistake of saying this one day when Éowyn  is again rebuking him for his coldness toward Eledher.  _She came to me at Gríma's behest, Éowyn ! So that Gríma could find a way to exploit me through her! How do you expect me to act toward her after discovering that?_

_And why did you pursue her, Théodred?_  Éowyn  demands _. Did you pursue her because you thought she would lend you advice and support? No, you pursued her because you wanted to know the rumours of her talent in the bedchamber were true. You wanted to satisfy your own curiousity. Stop acting as if your motives were noble, Théodred! You were only interested her as someone who would sate your needs! Why should she believe your feelings are true?_

Théodred gapes at his cousin.  _She wears my token for all of Rohan to see! I gave it to her freely and of my own will! Is that not enough?_

_And she gave you hers!_  Éowyn  is furious _. Is that not enough for you? She should accept that your feelings were true simply because you are Heir, and thus beyond reproach? You are not, you know._

Théodred does not know how to respond to this. His head is beginning to ache under Éowyn 's anger, and he is suspicious when her tone becomes persuasive. _Théodred, have you ever found evidence that Eledher was using her closeness to you to her advantage? Has she repeated anything you have told her in confidence, or tried to harm you in any way?_

Gossip in the Meduseld travels like a fire on the plains -- if Eledher had done any of these things, Théodred would have caught wind of it.  _No_ , he admits grudgingly.  _She has not. But --_

_But what? Gríma may have wanted her to distract you from his councils with Uncle, but she had no way of knowing_  why  _Gríma wished you distracted. She is not perceptive enough to have seen Gríma's scheming until it was right in front of her nose. Théodred, you believe that she was used unknowingly by Gríma in all other matters. Why can you not believe it about this one?_

Thinking on this keeps Théodred awake many nights. He is startled by how Éowyn 's words have affected him. He knows that she is right -- in the beginning, he wanted Eledher only because he had heard so much talk of her from other men, and because she would not have him. In the beginning, he did not care for her at all -- he was simply pleased to discover that the rumours had been correct. But that changed, though Théodred still does not understand how or when or why. If it changed for him, why does he have such difficultly believing that it changed for her as well? When Théodred is lying sleepless in his room at Helm's Deep, or staring at the ceiling of his tent on patrol, he can easily believe that Eledher has not been false in her affections toward him.

And, he realizes, he  _wants_  to believe it. But he does not know how to let himself . When Thedored is in Edoras, and cannot escape Gríma's narrowed eyes, it is harder to convince himself that Eledher was not somehow allied with the King's advisor.

When he is in Edoras, he remains darkly silent. He can see that this silence frustrates and worries his cousins, but Théodred is not the sort of man who can confide such self-doubt to anyone. Oh, he can ask for advice from equals about things military, and he has been known to listen to the suggestions of Riders under his command -- but when Théodred is truly uncertain as to his own character, the only person he has ever disclosed himself to is his father. And that, of course, is now impossible.

His father is another reason that Théodred prefers to stay in Helm's Deep. During the long winter, Théodred saw, with painful clarity, that his father was no longer able to think for himself, much less command the  _éoreds_  or rule the land. Often during those months, Théodred wanted to be as far from Edoras as his horse would take it, but it was not possible. Now that spring has come, he takes any opportunity he can to be where his father is not. He cannot bear to witness the King's slow crawl toward death.

Théodred has effectively taken control of  _éoreds_ , though he does what he can to keep this fact clouded. Orders supposedly issued by the King are "mislaid" or skillfully altered to reflect Théodred's commands instead of Gríma's. As yet, there is no indication that Gríma has any inkling of this subterfuge, and Rohan's people are kept safe. But Théodred hates the neccessity of such an action. There are days and days on end when he feels that he is a traitor, not only to his beloved father, but to all of his ancestry back to Eorl himself. When his mood is blackest, Théodred feels that if he is no better than Gríma.

When Éomer comes to Théodred, and tells him of several conversations, Théodred is stunned. Not by that Éomer wishes to stop questioning Eledher; he agrees to this immediately, for it is pointless to keep asking her about Gríma's words to the King. Nothing has come of it. No, Théodred is stunned by the implication that Eledher seems to believe that they have no concern as to her well-being. That  _he_ does not care what happens to her, so long as Gríma is caught. Does she have no faith in him?

_Of course we have not abandoned her to Gríma,_  Théodred says, frowning _. Does she think we are so cruel?_

Éomer hesitates a moment.  _We have not_ told  _her that we will give her protection,_ he says carefully.  _We have_ told  _her nothing; we have simply interrogated her and demanded that she do as we say, in order that she may prove herself loyal. It is…it is not entirely fair, cousin._

Éomer's words strike very near the target, and Théodred falls silent, aware that his cousin is watching him with poorly hidden anxiety. Théodred must concede, if only to himself, that they -- that  _he--_ has been using her as carelessly as Gríma has. He has given Eledher no reason to think that she will not be discarded as useless when this is over. He has avoided her. He was the one who suggested that Eledher steal into Gríma's rooms and rifle through his personal belongings in order to find older letters, though he knew that was a dangerous course of action. He has spoken only impersonal words to her in weeks, and has not even looked at her directly in just as long, except for when she is asleep. He has not comforted her when she has disturbing dreams, which he did even before he had any feeling for her. Of course she thinks he has thrown her to the wolves.

Théodred does not know how to correct Eledher's misapprehension, but he knows he must. Knowing that she has no confidence in his protection has shaken him badly, for he would not see harm come to her, no matter what she might think. Yes, when she first told him of her unknowing involvement in Gríma's plots, he was furious beyond reason. But though he is no longer blinded by his anger, Théodred realizes he has been blinded by not only his pride, but by his fierce desire to see Gríma pay for what he has done to Rohan.

And for all that he has fought against it, Théodred misses her. When he is in his own bed in the Meduseld, and Eledher is asleep on the other side, he often comes very close to reaching out and touching her, just her hair or her shoulder. He misses the warmth of her curled trustingly against him, misses that sweet smile on her face when she would see him upon waking and the quiet joy that lit up her eyes when he returned to Edoras after an absence.

Of course he also misses the physical pleasure they shared; he would not try to deny it. He has considered finding  _that_ elsewhere, but has found himself distracted by the fact that he still wears her token on his wrist. Additionally, he realizes that if Gríma catches wind of the fact that Théodred is passing time with other women, their careful façade of normalcy would be destroyed.

Perhaps most of all, Théodred wishes he could speak to her of all that is on his mind, as he used to -- not that she would give him counsel, for she has never done that, but simply as an unburdening. Though she offers no words of comfort or wisdom, Eledher listens very well, and sometimes that is all he needs. He has no-one to whom he can so speak now; Éomer and Éowyn  are already worried enough about him and keeping Gríma from finding out what is going on under his watchful eye. There is no one else whom he trusts to keep his confidences -- certainly not any of Rohan's lords. He must keep his troubles to himself, and he is finding this more and more stressful as the weeks go on.

It is late when Théodred arrives in Edoras, and he goes to straight to his chamber. There is no need to light a candle, for there is enough light to see by…and he does not want to disturb Eledher.

She is asleep on his side of the bed, and this causes him a pang of melancholy. He knows why she sleeps there when she is alone; she told him back when autumn had just begun.  _I always sleep on this side when you are gone_ , she had said, trailing kisses down the back of his neck as she kneaded his aching shoulder muscles.  _It holds the scent of you._

He goes around to the other side of the bed, and sits to take off his boots. When he glances over at Eledher, he sees that she is looking back at him. For a briefest moment, Théodred sees the beginnings of that warm smile creep into her eyes; then as she wakes fully, her expression becomes alarmed. She sits straight up, covering herself with the sheet.  _I -- I am sorry, my lord. I did not know you would return this evening._

He winces as if she has slapped him, for she has not named him so in many months. He cannot keep himself from saying, _Since when do you call me 'my lord'?_

Eledher looks away from him.  _I --I did not think you would wish me to address you so familiarly_. Her voice holds a quiver of pain that is quickly repressed, and abruptly, Théodred is wearier than he can remember ever being.

He turns his back to her.  _You may call me what you like_ , he tells her, shrugging.

There is a long moment of silence, then:  _Is all well?_ She is hesitant, but Théodred has no doubt that her concern is genuine.

_I cannot tell,_  he replied honestly as he pulls his shirt over his head. _I do not think the situation is worsening, but it does not seem to be improving, either._

_I meant…is all well with_  you _?_

Théodred turns at the worry in her voice, and sees it reflected on her face. He gives a ghost of a smile.  _I cannot tell that, either. Rohan is safe, for the moment, and that gives me some strength. And your efforts to help uncover Gríma's scheming have been most helpful._

He had not planned to say this, but he is glad he did, for something like gratitude or relief shines briefly in Eledher's gaze, warming him. It warms him too much, in fact, as does the curve of her neck, the line of her bare shoulder. In recent days, when they are sharing a bed, she has taken to sleeping in a shift, but apparently when he is gone, she does no such thing. Théodred's reaction to this knowledge is predictable, and he tries to think of something less affecting.

_Thank you,_  Eledher replies softly with an almost-smile, then she changes the subject _. You should rest. It is late, and you look tense._

Théodred's chest tightens at her concern, but he merely nods.  _I am_ , he admits with a sigh, laying down, pulling the bedclothes around himself.  _It sometimes feels as if I will never be fully relaxed again._

The silence which follows is oddly charged, and when Eledher speaks, her tone is almost expressionless.  _Shall I calm you?_

Théodred sits up, startled, wondering if he has misinterpreted her words. Eledher has not moved; her face is blank -- purposefully, Théodred thinks -- and she waits patiently for his answer. But he can see the faintest hint of colour in her cheeks, as if she is shocked at her own forwardness, and he knows her well enough to know that she is very nervous.

Trying to calm the sudden uproar in his blood, he studies her carefully. He wants her -- there is no arguing that fact -- but he is not sure that he  _should_ accept her offer. She is powerfully, almost irresistably tempting, and it takes an effort to speak evenly.  _Eledher -- I do not know that it is a good --_

_You are not the only person in Rohan who is tense,_  is all she says, and those words cause Théodred to consciously take note of the faint shadows under Eledher's eyes, the slightly haggard look to her face. She is right, of course -- she has been under great pressure as well, perhaps more than he has, for Gríma does not physically dog his steps nor verbally threaten him. He reaches for her, and her smile makes his breath catch.

He expects it to be quick, as it always is when they have been apart, but it is not. Eledher draws it out. She is intense, focused, exploring him as if she has never been with him before until they are both shaking. It is as if she is trying to memorize every inch of him. Something about her body seems fuller, lusher -- even her breasts seem larger, more responsive to his touch.

He will think later that this perception is simply the result of having been deprived for so long, but now, he is thinking only of how to use this new sensitivity to please them both, delighting in her low moans of encouragement. When need can no longer be resisted, she holds to him fiercely, marking his back with her fingernails, shuddering as she cries out breathlessly.  _Théodred. Théodred, Théodred._

He is nearly asleep, arms wrapped tightly around Eledher, when a thought occurs to him. She  _was_ trying to memorize him, for she thinks that this was the last time that they would be together. He tries to rouse himself enough to tell her that this is not so, that he has no desire to keep from her any longer, that he has been a stubborn fool and to ask forgiveness, but he is too tired, and for once, too relaxed. He will wake when she does in the morning, and tell her all those things then.

In the morning, she is already gone, and there is word that he needs to return to Helm's Deep immediately. He tells Éowyn  to let Eledher know that he wishes to speak with her, and that he will return as soon as he can. Éowyn  looks surprised and pleased, but Théodred refuses to tell his cousin more. It is not her business.

And after a fortnight, when he is able to return to Edoras, Théodred finds that he is too late.


	20. The Women

**The Housemaid**

Lathwyn knows what it is like be afraid. When living with the Dunlendings, she lived in fear every moment of every day, until it stopped being fear and simply became normal. But that was not the same as what she experiences now. Then she feared only for herself, for her physical well-being.

Now – now she is terrified for the safety of others. She knows that one small slip could cause ruin for all, including Rohan itself, and there are moments when the weight of this responsibility threatens to suffocate her. Lathwyn faces every morning with the knowledge that if she gives anything away to Grima, death will surely follow, if not for her, then for Théodred or Théoden King, or Lady Éowyn and Lord Éomer. She does not have to pretend that she is afraid of Gríma, simply to lull him into a false sense of security; he  _does_  frighten her, more than she is willing to admit. But she wants to see his duplicity uncovered, she wants him to pay for what he has done to king and country.

Of course she can speak of these things to no-one, which makes the pressure she is under than much greater. Lathwyn finds that where once she was stoic and steady to the point of indifference, now her moods seem blown about by the fierce spring winds. One moment she is impassive; the next she is fighting back a flood of tears. Any word can send her into a fit of anger or insult, and these attacks of temper worry her. She is not used to being at the whim of her emotions.

One day, when she is visiting Liðides, she begins sobbing into her tea without warning, and the other woman pats her shoulder sympathetically.  _It will pass, my dear. I_ _t happens to all women, the crying and the anger and the swift changes of mood. You should be happy, Eledher. This child will ensure that you have a comfortable life._

Lathwyn freezes, her first instinct to deny, but she knows that would be futile. Liðides is too knowing believe such a lie. _Please_ , Lathwyn says, clutching at Liðides' hand,  _please say nothing, not yet._

Liðides looks at her strangely, but does not argue.  _If you wish me to remain silent, I will. Though in a month or two, everyone in Edoras will be able to see for themselves._

_I know,_  Lathwyn replies,  _but I need a chance to think how I am going to break the news to him._

Liðides nods.  _Of course,_  she promises.  _I will say nothing until you think the time is right._

Lathwyn trusts that Liðides will keep quiet, but she is still petrified by her uncontrollable reactions. She cannot afford to lose her composure, yet it takes all her strength to present a placid face to the world. Every night she collapses into Théodred's bed, utterly exhausted but too knotted with worry to sleep. She has come to be grateful that Théodred is not often in Edoras, for only when she is alone at the end of the day can she let her guard down completely.

When she is alone is the only time she can allow herself to think about the life she now carries; to lay her plans for the future. If he were there, she would not have such solitude. If he were there, she would not be able to keep such a secret from him for long. And he must not know.

Lathwyn is confused by the seeming concern of the Lord Éomer and the Lady Éowyn . On separate occasions, both approach and ask if Gríma is mistreating her in any way. She does not know why they would think otherwise, and does not understand why they act surprised that she has not relayed this information; she sees no point. Of course Gríma mistreats her – that is why she is there, so that he has someone to unleash all his suspicions on. She is bait, a distraction so that Gríma's shrewd gaze will not focus on how his letters are being intercepted, or how Théodred is commanding the armies. She knows this, and accepts it as what she must do to make amends for her part in the king's decline.

She knows now, however, that she cannot – no, will not—continue to risk herself so. It is too much to ask, especially now. Lathwyn had thought that she was incapable of bearing children, for though she has had many swift, impersonal encounters over the years, she never quickened. And though she has been content to let others dictate her actions, now she is not. She will not put her child in jeopardy.

In the dark of the night, however, Lathwyn is stung by the fact that neither Lord nor Lady tried to tell her that all would be well in the end, that Théodred would indeed once again look at her without anger or bitterness in his gaze. She does not think they will ever be as they once were; she only wants Théodred to stop thinking of her as a traitor. It would make things so much easier to bear.

One night Théodred returns unexpectedly, and Lathwyn's immediate reaction is alarm, for she is intruding on his side of the wide bed and she does not wish to antagonize him. To her surprise, he does not seem to be bothered by this. In fact, he speaks to her as he has not done in many a day. He does not vent his frustrations as he once did, but he shows no sign of injured pride, even telling her,  _Your efforts to help uncover Gríma's scheming have been most helpful._

She is struck dumb for a moment, for they have not spoken this much in two months, and she had not realized how much she had missed his calming voice.

_Thank you_ , she replies softly, then changes the subject.  _You should rest. It is late, and you look tense._

He nods.  _I am_ , he admits with a sigh, laying down, pulling the bedclothes around himself.  _It sometimes feels as if I will never be fully relaxed again._

Lathwyn knows what that is like. She studies Théodred a moment, allowing herself the luxury of admiring him. He looks so weary, so weighed down by his duties – she wishes she could do something to ease his worries. She thinks that she did not imagine a flash of desire in his eyes.  _Shall I calm you?_

Théodred sits up, startled. Lathwyn does not move nor speak; she does not trust herself to do either. His thoughts are clearly written on his face – he is both eager to accept her offer, and afraid that she will take it as something more than just comfort. But she has wanted such consolation as well; has wanted it to the point where she had considered finding it elsewhere, from some anonymous stable hand. Liðides has told her that this is normal as well, but that does not make such urges any easier to bear. She has not sought out another man, of course – it would be unwise in many ways. Besides, she does not want any other man.

_Eledher –_ he says at length, obviously conflicted. _I do not know that it is a good --_

_You are not the only person in Rohan who is tense,_ is all she says. His eyes narrow, as if he is seeing her for the first time in months, and whatever he sees brings him to a decision. He reaches for her; she goes to him readily, and cannot hold back a soft sigh at the feel of his mouth on hers.

Lathwyn knows this will be the last time, so she does all she can to draw it out. She wants to remember this, so that she will have the memories to warm her on the cold, empty nights that are to come. The heat of his lips against her throat; the roughness of his beard against her belly; the way his voice catches when he whispers her name; his breathless, ragged gasps; the scent and taste and feel of him. The surprising way every inch of her skin seems more sensitive than it has ever been.

Once they are both sated, Lathwyn lies with Théodred's arms around her, lightly tracing her token on his wrist. She wonders if he will continue to wear it after she is gone.

 As she tends to her duties the next day, she cannot help but wonder if Théodred will come to her again, and she finds herself smiling at the idea. Even if it is just comfort, it is what she needs right now.

The Lady Éowyn  tells Lathwyn that Théodred has been called away to Helm's Deep, though he much wishes to speak with her on his return. For an instant, Lathwyn is filled with happiness at this news, for Lady Éowyn  seems pleased to deliver it. Then reality asserts itself, and Lathwyn knows that she will never discover what it was Théodred wished to say to her.

**The Shieldmaiden**

Éowyn  is relieved that Théodred is not often in Edoras, for she still simmers with irritation toward her cousin. Éomer has spoken with him, as has she, and yet there is no outward sign that Théodred is willing to consider that his treatment of Eledher is unworthy. She is aware that Théodred has begun avoiding her, when he is in the Meduseld, but this only makes her more determined to make him see the error of his ways.

She finds him in the stables one day, and again reproaches him for his coldness toward Eledher. Surprisingly, he strikes back at her accusations -- in the past, Théodred has simply ignored Éowyn  when she speaks to him so. Every word he says only convinces Éowyn  further that he is hiding behind his pride.

. _She came to me at Gríma's behest, Éowyn ! So that Gríma could find a way to exploit me through her! How do you expect me to act toward her after discovering that?_

_And why did_ you  _pursue_ her _, Théodred?_  Éowyn  demands, exasperated.  _Did you pursue her because you thought she would lend you advice and support? No, you pursued her because you wanted to know the rumours of her talent in the bedchamber were true. You wanted to satisfy your own curiosity. Stop acting as if_ your  _motives were noble, Théodred! You were only interested her as someone who would sate your needs! Why should she believe_ your  _feelings are true?_

_She wears my token for all of Rohan to see!_ her cousin exclaims fiercely. _I gave it to her freely and of my own will! Is that not enough?_

_And she gave you hers!_ Éowyn  has lost her patience with his stubbornness.  _Is that not enough for_ you _? She should accept that_ your  _feelings were true simply because you are Heir, and thus beyond reproach? You are not, you know._ He looks shocked that she would say such a thing, and Éowyn  makes an effort to rein her temper in. _Théodred, have you ever found evidence that Eledher was using her closeness to you to her advantage? Has she repeated anything you have told her in confidence, or tried to harm you in any way?_

_No_ , he admits through clenched teeth.  _She has not. But --_

_But what? Gríma may have wanted her to distract you from his councils with Uncle, but she had no way of knowing_ why _Gríma wished you distracted. She is not perceptive enough to have seen Gríma's scheming until it was right in front of her nose. Théodred, you believe that she was used unknowingly by Gríma in all other matters. Why can you not believe it about this one?_

Théodred stares at her for a long moment, then without another word, turns and leaves the stables, leaving Éowyn  to fume.

However, while Théodred's mood still seems darker than is normal, Éowyn  thinks she sees that her words have had an effect. She is not sure if she is imagining this or not until Éomer relays a conversation he had with their cousin. Éomer believes that Théodred's heart is softening towards Eledher, which Éowyn  finds amusing, as Éomer himself seems to be having a similar change in attitude. Now all she can do is be patient, and hope her brother's perceptions are correct – rebuking Théodred further will only turn her cousin's temper toward her.

Théodred comes to Éowyn  and asks let Eledher know that he wishes to speak her on his return to Edoras. Éowyn  is pleased; though Théodred refuses to say more, she hopes that his intention is to mend the breach that is between him and Eledher.

She delivers this news to Eledher one day as she is finishing a copy of the latest letter. Eledher brightens for an instant, and then something shifts in her eyes. Her gaze flickers downward briefly, and abruptly, it all becomes clear. Eledher's unusual shows of emotion in these last weeks, her visible exhaustion, the layers upon layers of worry that never leave her face.

_Does Théodred know?_ Éowyn 's voice echoes in the stillness of the library.

Eledher's face pales, and Éowyn  thinks she is going to bolt. Then Eledher gives a small, wistful smile, laying one hand on her belly.  _No,_ she says softly,  _no. And he will not know, unless you tell him._

For a moment, Éowyn  gapes at the other woman, then manages to find her voice.  _What do you mean by that? You cannot mean to keep this from him! Or…_  Éowyn  falters, then continues ruthlessly,  _or is it not his?_

_Of course it is his_ , Eledher answers, her even tone belied by the spark of resentment in her eyes.  _But there would be no point in telling him, my lady, as I am leaving Edoras._

_What -- leaving Edoras?_ Éowyn  demands. _You cannot think that I – that_ Théodred _– will allow you to do so!_

_You cannot stop me,_ Eledher replies flatly.  _Unless you are planning to keep me under lock and key. Which would, of course, alert Gríma to the fact that all is not as it should be._

Éowyn  is growing angrier by the moment. Never would she have thought that Eledher, seemingly the quietest and most obliging of servants, would have the spirit to defy her, the Lady of Rohan. She opens her mouth to berate the other woman, but Eledher speaks first.

_My lady – what do you think would happen if Gríma were to discover this?_

If Gríma were to discover that a woman he thought under his control was carrying Théodred's child? He would seize both mother and child, and use them mercilessly against her cousin. Even if Théodred rejected the child – though Éowyn  does not think he would – Gríma would use it hold Eledher hostage. She would never be free of him. Or he would kill her outright, with nary a twinge of conscience. The very thought makes Éowyn 's stomach heave, and she tries to find words to reason.

_Do you not think that we could make you safe?_ she asks.  _I do not think that Théodred would ignore his responsibilities, Eledher. He would protect you, as would my brother and all the men at their command, if needs be._

Eledher looks Éowyn  directly in the face.  _The same way they have protected you and the King?_

Her words knock Éowyn  as breathless as any blow, and she finds herself actually raising her hand to slap Eledher for daring to breathe such an insult. Then her fury toward Eledher fades, and she is deeply, painfully ashamed that she cannot disagree. Her cousin and brother have left her to Gríma's mercies, trusting that she could find ways to defend herself. They were unable to keep Gríma from undermining her uncle's rule and mind; even now, they cannot undo all the harm Gríma has done. Éowyn  finds tears of frustration stinging her eyelids, and she drops her gaze to the ground, unwilling to let a servant see her in such a state.

_They are not here all the time,_  Eledher continues, voice now quiet and matter-of-fact _, and he is. I would not live to see this child born, my Lady. The Meduseld is full of dark corners and empty rooms, and you know that he would not balk at doing away with me. I will not give Gríma that opportunity. And if you do not speak, then Théodred never need know. You may tell everyone what you like - put out that I ran off with a musician or tinker or that I simply went mad…there are many who will believe that without blinking._ Her smile is tight.  _But I will not stay here and risk my life and the life of my child._

_But… what of the letters?_ Éowyn  gathers enough of her wits to ask.  _You retrieve them from the couriers, Eledher. Any information we've gathered has come from those letters._

Eledher shrugs as if it is of little importance to her.  _I have identified all the messengers for you. Gríma will find someone else to accept his letters. And he will continue to use the library as a hiding-spot, for it has served him well thus far. He will not change his routine if he does not think he has been compromised. I am just a chambermaid; he does not think I have the neither wit nor courage to betray him._

This is certainly true, Éowyn  admits to herself. If Gríma had thought Eledher was in any way clever, he would not have drawn her into his schemes to begin with. He thinks that she is wholly under his influence, and if she disappears without a trace – if she can – he will assume that she became too frightened of him. And even if Gríma moves his customary hiding place, it will not be overly difficult to discover. After all, Éowyn  had been aware that Eledher was entering the library on a frequent basis; she had simply assumed that the other woman wished for a few moments of peace, for Éowyn  has never been blind to the fact that Eledher is not entirely comfortable around other people.

_You know as well as I that Gríma has spies throughout Rohan,_ Éowyn  points out, head spinning.  _You will not be completely safe, wherever you go._

Eledher smiles, a tired smile that is less than reassuring.  _I will be fine, my lady._

Éowyn  understands. She has no intention of staying in Rohan – she speaks Westron, and there are many places where one woman will not draw notice. Minas Tirith, Dol Amroth, Pelargir Port, and other cities past the Gap – Gríma cannot search them all.  _You would go alone, friendless and without family to help you find your way?_

Eledher nods.  _I have no other choice…unless you should come with me._

Not in a thousand years would Éowyn  have expected those words to come from Eledher's mouth. For the briefest of moments, Éowyn  considers the possibility. A life far from Gríma Wormtongue, where she could be baker or tailor or grocer or nursemaid. Where no-one expected anything of her; where she would not be so caged as she is now. It is a heady, dizzying thought.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. She could never abandon the land of her birth, never steal away and throw her duty and honour to the winds.  _I cannot,_  Éowyn  replies, though not unkindly, and Eledher does not look surprised.  _Have you – have you plans? How will you live? You do not have coin or rank to help you._

_I have plans,_ Eledher reveals, a vindictive light to her eyes.  _And I have coin enough to live for some time, if I am careful._

_You have?_ Éowyn  is confused.  _But where –_ she trails off. Gríma is not a man who would balk at stealing from the coffers or accepting bribes. She marvels at the nerve it must have taken for Eledher to take such coin from Gríma's own rooms, and wonders how she knew where to find his hiding place. If Eledher was willing to endanger herself so, then she is truly determined to leave, and Éowyn  cannot help but admire that bravery.

She also knows that Eledher is right – Gríma has tried for so long to rid himself of King and Marshals that he would certainly not permit Théodred's child to be born, on the slim chance that that child might be allowed into the line of succession. Éowyn  realizes that she has made her decision: she will not try to stop Eledher from fleeing Edoras.  _When will you leave?_

_Soon._ Eledher's mood has changed, and now her eyes are resigned.  _I must go before Théodred returns, else I may lose my courage, and that would be a fatal mistake._

Éowyn  hesitates, then cautiously reaches out and places her hand on Eledher's shoulder.  _I will have to tell him sometime_ , she says, and Eledher looks as if she may burst into tears,  _I cannot keep such a thing from him forever. But I will not do so until you are away._

Eledher heaves a sigh of relief.  _Thank you, Lady Éowyn_ , she says, voice weak with gratitude.  _Now it is best if I return to my work, before I am missed._

They go their separate ways, and Éowyn  begins to construct a believable story she can tell Théodred when Eledher is discovered to be missing.


	21. The Advisor

Gríma is pleased, for he has identified at least two of Saruman's spies. Careful questioning has revealed that one of the stablemen is rumoured to have a Dunlending grandmother, though he has the features and look of a Rohir. This man has been seen at a tavern in the company of a farrier, who works at one of the city's public livery stables. They do not often speak to others in the tavern; more frequently, they talk between themselves for long periods of time, then disappear into the night. Gríma has made certain that one of  _his_ men is always at that tavern, and he has also bribed a cooperative whore to keep watch on these spies.

He is also pleased that Lord Théodred is spending so much time at Helm's Deep; one less Marshal to contend with makes Gríma's life much easier. He has not failed to notice that when Lord Théodred does visit the Meduseld, he does not spend much time in the company of his cousins except at meals. The tension between Lord Théodred and Lady Éowyn is almost tangible, though Gríma has not yet been able to determine what the source of the quarrel is. It does not matter, however – any discord works in his favour.

There is a lesser tension between Lord Éomer and Lady Éowyn, but it is there nonetheless, and this in particular raises Gríma's interest. The siblings have always argued, but those disagreements rarely lasted for very long; now they speak, although seemingly pleasant, but something is not quite right. Gríma thinks perhaps they are in conflict over their lord cousin's lengthy absences, but he has no proof of this. It warms him to sense such conflict, for if Lady Éowyn is distanced from her brother and cousin, there is room for him to try and widen the gap between them, show her how supportive and sympathetic he can be toward her.

Lathwyn has begun to bore Gríma. When he speaks to her, he can almost see her recoil in fear and she answers in a tight, nervous voice which tells Gríma that she is very close to her breaking point. It no longer amuses him to see how deferential she is toward him. She still dutifully retrieves his letters, and sees to Théoden King with scrupulous care, but there are many in Edoras who could do as well with these tasks.

He is reluctant to attempt to have her replaced; Lord Théodred would certainly want to know why his wench was no longer tending his father, for the Second Marshal has made it quite clear that he approves of Lathwyn's place as King's Chambermaid. Lady Éowyn seems to share this approval, and of course he will do nothing to draw her displeasure if it can be avoided. There is also the possibility, no matter how slight, that Lord Théodred will let his tongue slip one night, while drunk or weary, and Lathwyn will be able to provide Gríma with a bit of useful information. And Gríma has more important things to occupy his mind than one shivering housemaid.

Lord Éomer is fast becoming a difficulty. He is much like his father, so Gríma hears from every Rider who knew Lord Éomund. Lord Éomer is prone to arguing with the orders given to him, though all are signed by his uncle the King; he deliberately misinterprets any vague words in such orders, twisting them to his advantage so that he may lead his men where  _he_ wants to go, rather than obeying these commands to the letter. Worse, Gríma has heard no rumours of complaints from Lord Éomer's Riders at his actions; they simply follow him, trusting that their Marshal is doing as he has been bid to do. This worries Gríma, for a man who can rouse such loyalty is an obstacle to all his carefully laid plans. Lord Théodred does have such loyalty from his men, but he is far away, and not flouting Théoden King's missives under Gríma's very nose.

And Gríma does not believe that Lord Théodred  _would_ disobey his own father so blatantly; Lord Théodred is older, more experienced, and understands how it would undermine the king's authority to ignore his orders. Lord Éomer is rash and hot-headed and young, still young enough to think that he knows how to defend Rohan better than an older man. To Gríma, it does not matter that all orders given to the  _éoreds_  are written by his own hand rather than by Théoden King's – the king has trusted his advice for years, and because he is incoherent of late does not mean that he would not follow Gríma's suggestions. What matters is that Lord Éomer openly hostile and disrespectful. Gríma has even seen Lord Éomer's hand twitch toward his sword when Gríma passes a word with the Lady Éowyn . He does not quite believe that Lord Éomer would act against him in a physical manner, but he is not imprudent enough to believe this wholeheartedly.

Gríma begins to listens to Lord Éomer's complaints, and gives the appearance of agreeing with him. Not always, of course – that would be the height of foolishness. But now and again, when Lord Éomer's temper is highest, Gríma smiles and nods his head, and says,  _I was not aware of this problem, my lord. I shall bring it to your uncle's attention straight away, and persuade him to see your point._  In this manner, Gríma soothes a bit of the Third Marshal's frustrations at being restrained from what he sees as his rightful duties, and Gríma sees that Lord Éomer's outbursts of temper gradually become less frequent. So easy, he marvels to himself. So easily manipulated. If only his sister were the same.

Gríma is looking through his secret correspondence one day and sees something – they are not in the proper order. He keeps them arranged by date, earliest to most recent, and the oldest letters have been disarranged. There is a moment of overwhelming panic, but that quickly fades under his rage. Rage that someone has entered his chambers unnoticed; that someone has gone through his belongings; that he did not notice this trespass earlier. How could he not notice? Certainly the person responsible for this had to break into the box, and yet the lock is not broken.

He examines the box closely, and finds that the hinges – metal, not leather, for he purchased this small chest years ago in Gondor – are loose. Looking more closely, he sees scratches on the metal and realizes the tiny nails holding the hinges steady have been drawn out, then sunk back in. He pulls the nails out himself, and discovers that once the hinges have been removed, the lid to the box can be opened wide enough to shake out whatever is inside.

Gríma throws the box across the room, cursing and near shaking with anger. It is one thing to know that his every move is being watched; it is another to know that they have been in his private chamber, searching and poking in every corner. It cannot be the farrier or the stableman- neither one has reason to be in the Golden Hall. This means there is yet another spy of Saruman's to be uncovered, one who will go unnoticed in the daily activity of the Meduseld.

He is still so enraged by this incident that he does not notice Lathwyn's change of mood when he speaks to her that evening in Théoden King's chambers. Though he is impatient and curt with her, she is not timid, but he does not mark it. When she relays the news that Lord Théodred has returned unexpectedly to Helm's Deep after spending only one night in Edoras, with no word of when he might return, Gríma snarls fiercely at her. This is not notable, to Gríma's mind, for Lord Théodred's comings and goings have been erratic for some time, but he does not notice that Lathwyn does not flinch away from his anger. He is so deeply sunk in his thoughts of finding the spy that he does not even notice that, for the first time in many weeks, Lathwyn does not shrink at Gríma's mere presence.

 

 

 


	22. Interlude - 3016 T.A.

**The Housemaid**

Edoras is a busy city, and it is no hard task for Lathwyn to find a man willing to let her buy a seat on his wain. In fact, he tells her that there will be two others traveling along – he keeps a bit of space free for just this purpose. She is a bit suspicious, for it seems so easy. She was expecting questions, or at least the suggestion that she pay her way with something other than coin. But the man merely tells her that she should carry her own food, for the inns along the Great Road may charge more than she can pay, tells her she is welcome to sleep in the wain if she can not pay for a bed at an inn, and gives her his time of departure.

Lathwyn is amazed that her heart is so light. Though the fact that she will not see Théodred again causes her pain, she is relieved to have made her plans with little effort. She has taken a number of items from the laundry's rag bin, all things deemed too threadbare or poor for their previous owners to wear – a faded green gown with a sadly torn sleeve, a pair of hose that only wants mending, a much-patched shift that can be cut into swaddling for a newborn.

Lathwyn has a carrysack that is more than large enough for all these things, plus her meager possessions. She hides the roughly-woven bag in Théodred 's room one night, and remembers that he keeps an old shirt stuffed under the mattress, in case he must rise during the night. He will not miss it; it is not good enough to wear for anything but foaling or other such work. It will be the child's first gown, she thinks with a sad smile, and puts it in the sack.

**The Shieldmaiden**

Éowyn is surprised that Eledher is so calm. She expected the other woman to be jumping with nervousness, looking over her shoulder at every step for fear someone would discover that she is planning to flee. Instead, Eledher seems collected and at ease, more like the woman she was before this whole, tangled mess was uncovered. It is as if Eledher no longer has any cares, which Éowyn  finds odd, for if anything, her cares have multiplied. With wry amusement, Éowyn thinks that finding Eledher odd is of utmost normality.

What is not normal is that Éomer seems less restless of late. True, he is brash as ever in disagreeing with Grima, but it appears that Éomer's tempers are wearing down even Gríma's patience. Éowyn is suspicious when her brother tells her that, at times, Gríma reluctantly admits that the Third Marshal does indeed know which lands needs to be patrolled. Éomer is gleeful when he tells Éowyn of this, and rolls his eyes when she suggests he be on his guard.

 _Can you not simply let me enjoy the fact that Gríma_   _is sending me where the_ eored  _is most needed? I am not a fool, Éowyn.  I know that he is agreeing with me for some purpose of his own – but now I need not always skirt the edge of open insubordination so that I can defend our lands properly. I do not like such scheming, even when it is necessary – do not worry, sister. I have my eye on him yet._

And with that she must be satisfied.

Éowyn  is curious when one day she sees that Gríma is in a fine rage. He hides it poorly; he snaps at serving girls and speaks at length to the boy who tends to his office and chamber. The boy is shaken and frightened-looking; throughout the discussion, he shakes his head violently, seeming to defend himself against something. Éowyn  is not surprised when she finds that Gríma has discharged the boy, demanding that someone else look after his rooms.

She finds the boy, asks him what happened.

 _I don't know!_ The boy is near tears of indignation.  _He said that someone had been in his room, going through his things. He accused me of letting someone into his rooms! I know nothing of it, my lady, on my word – I know better than that! I would never let anyone in his rooms! He kept going on about spies!_

Éowyn reassures the boy that he will not be turned out, and, at his request, reassigns him to the  _eored_ 's stables. She knows who was going through Gríma 's things; of course it was Eledher, trying to find the letters she was bid to retrieve. Why Gríma is convinced that there are spies involved, she does not know. She keeps it in mind; Gríma  may be overly mistrustful, but that does not mean he is not right.

Four days after she spoke with Eledher in the library, the chamberlain comes to Éowyn and tells her that the king's chambermaid has run off. Éowyn manages to act startled, and spends some time discussing suitable replacements with the man. When he leaves, she sits for a long time, staring at nothing, hoping that Eledher will run far enough that Gríma will never find her.

**The Advisor**

Gríma  lashes out at the boy who keeps his rooms.

_Someone has been in my private chamber – I would have you tell me how they managed to gain entrance. Have I not told you that the door is to be kept locked, except when you are inside?_

The boy is shocked.  _I have done as you asked, always. There's been no-one in nor out of there but me!_

_Then why are my belongings in disarray? Why have my possessions been rifled through? There are two possibilities – either you are incompetent, or you are a spy. Which is it?_

The boy gapes, clearly flustered, but in his eyes, Gríma fancies that he sees guilt.  _You have left the door unlocked, haven't you?_ he demands.  _You have allowed someone, some enemy of Rohan to enter my room unseen, and go through my papers. Do you know what you have done, you stupid child?_

The boy shakes his head, protesting, but Gríma does not give him time to defend himself.  _Unless you are the one who has done so. Tell me, did you find anything of interest? Could you even read what you found? Have you delivered this information to your master?_

 _I did no such thing!_ the boy cries.  _I have touched nothing but what I need to in order to keep your rooms as you require! I would not allow some…some stranger to enter your rooms!_

 _But you have,_  Gríma says coldly.  _I have proof that you have, whether it was purposeful or accidental. You will not be tending my rooms any longer, on that you may rely. You are as trustworthy as a Dunlending, and if I find you in even the hallway to my rooms, I will have you thrown out of Edoras, is that clear? Get out of my sight, but be assured – I am not convinced that you are not working in the employ of some enemy. You will not escape my sight._

Gríma does not think that the boy is a spy, but he will not stand for such incompetence. If those letters are found in his possession, it will not matter that everything is couched in the vaguest terms. All that protects him now is the fact that the letters cannot be connected to him. He assumes the spy is from Saruman, but what if this person is serving Lord Théodred , or Lord Éomer? It could be someone from any of Rohan's lords. He must find this spy, and take care of him, quickly.

Gríma is surprised when he hears that Lathwyn has disappeared. No-one seems to know why; no-one remembers seeing her leave – but no-one seems to think it very strange.

 _She was always an odd one,_ says the head chambermaid.  _A good worker, but odd and not at all friendly. No figuring why she did anything, meaning no disrespect._

Gríma goes to the king's rooms, and finds them in perfect order. The fire is lit, the bed is prepared, and a flask of watered wine sits awaiting the king. The king himself sits drowsing in a chair by the fire, a blanket tucked neatly around him. It looks for all the world as if Lathwyn had stepped out and will be back at any moment.

He asks Théoden King where Lathwyn has gone, not expecting any coherent answer. But the king smiles.

 _She has gone to see Éomund,_ he says thickly, waving one hand meaninglessly. He begins to say more, but the moment of lucidity has passed.

Gríma  is puzzled, but also relieved. He is glad to be rid of her – certainly he can find someone else to retrieve his messages. However, he will advise his agents to contact him if they see Lathwyn. Although he believes she can do him no harm, he is not a man to leave loose ends.

**The Marshal**

When Éomer returns to the Meduseld, Éowyn  immediately approaches him, tells him that Lathwyn has disappeared, and explains how they will now conduct the business of retrieving Gríma 's letters.

 _What do you mean, she's disappeared?_ Éomer interrupts.

 _I do not know how to say it more plainly,_  Éowyn replies.  _She is gone, and no-one knows where or why._

Éomer is startled to find that Éowyn's words do not ring quite true. He has no doubts that Lathwyn is gone, but a strange gleam flickers in his sister's eyes when she speaks.  _I do not believe you_ , he says flatly.  _I know you better than anyone, Éowyn , and you are hiding something._

 _What matter is it to you?_ Éowyn wants to know.  _I should think you would be pleased – now Théodred  need not keep company with a woman of such low birth._

 _I have never denied that I do not think her suitable for our cousin,_  Éomer sighs,  _but you must admit, Éowyn , that it is strange, if she is as attached to Théodred  as you seem to think she …_

_She is scared, Éomer. She is scared of Gríma, and she has been a wreck of late, though I am sure you have not noticed. I, for one, am not surprised that it became too much for her to bear. There are times when I myself would prefer to flee elsewhere than to spend one more moment under Wormtongue's gaze._

This sounds a likely story, for no matter what his sister thinks, Éomer has noticed Lathwyn's nervous, anxious state. But something tells Éomer that it is simply a story. He begins to question Éowyn further, but is stopped when he hears Théodred's voice echoing through the hallway.

Brother and sister exchange an uneasy look of resignation, and go to speak with their cousin privately.

**The Heir**

Théodred stares at his cousins, shocked.  _But why?_ he wonders aloud, not expecting an answer.  _What happened while I was gone? What – Gríma must have threatened her beyond bearing, else he is trying to injure me. I do not think she would simply vanish of her own accord, not without telling someone. Have you spoken with all the maids, that woman who was her friend? Surely someone knows something._

Éomer speaks quietly.  _I believe that one person knows why, if not where._

Théodred glances at him sharply, and sees that Éomer is looking at his own sister.  _Éowyn ?_

She hesitates for a long moment, as if struggling with some decision. Finally she says,  _Aye, I knew she planned to leave. But I did not know when she would, nor where she is going._

Théodred hears her omission, and bites back his slowly rising anger.  _And do you know_ why _,Éowyn ?_

Her jaw tightens stubbornly, never a good sign.  _She was afraid of Gríma. You both know as well as I do that he has always treated her poorly, threatened her with harm to you, cousin. She left so that Gríma would not be able to so use her any longer._

Théodred considers this explanation a moment, and is about to question Éowyn further when Éomer speaks again, clearly exasperated.

_That is not all, is it? Éowyn, why must we drag this out of you? If she is gone, what harm can it do to tell us the entire truth?_

Now Éowyn's eyes are snapping.  _Because she does not want Théodred coming after her._

 _She does not want me comin –_  Théodred  stops mid-sentence, as a terrible suspicion strikes him.  _Éowyn  – please tell me that she did not leave because she was carrying my child._

Éomer's jaw drops, but Théodred  barely notices – his eyes are fixed on Éowyn, who will not meet his gaze, and that is all the answer he needs.

They argue, long and fierce. Éowyn does not know where Eledher has gone, and there is no feasible way to find out. There are countless wains entering and leaving Edoras every day, bound for many different cities – Eledher could easily have left with any of them.

Finally, late into the night, they all seek their beds, though but nothing has been accomplished and there is great resentment on all sides. Théodred  lies in his bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep, pride still stinging from Éowyn's harsh words.  _She was afraid for her life, and the life of your child, Théodred! I know that you would wish to protect her, but you are not always here! You could take her to Helm's Deep, but you know as well as I that Gríma has agents there as well! Would you rather she stayed, and had harm befall her that you could not prevent?_

He does not want to admit it, but Éowyn is right. He could not always be near enough to keep Eledher safe from Gríma, and Wormtongue would indeed be more than happy to make an innocent child one of his pawns. He also realizes that, if he had known, he would have sent Eledher away to a little village or town in order to protect her and his child.

Though it pains him deeply, Théodred understands the impulse which made Eledher flee. He has not given her assurances of his protection or attachment of late; in fact, he has held her at arm's length for many weeks. She has no reason to think that he would even acknowledge the child as his, though he is sure it is.

Théodred does not know what to do. He considers sending men to search Edoras, but it would be a waste of time and energy, for Éowyn  is positive that Eledher has left Rohan completely. He could send men to other cities – but again, there is no way of knowing where she has gone, nor even which direction she has gone. Théodred does not believe Eledher is foolish enough to take refuge in a small community, where she would be noticed – no, she will go to a large town or city, where unwed, pregnant women are not so unusual. She is just one woman, who will easily disappear into such a large population. What is more, she is a woman who knows how to make herself almost invisible, if she wishes. Théodred thinks that finding Eledher would be close to impossible.

But he cannot do nothing at all. Théodred knows there are settlements of Rohirrim in all the large towns of Gondor – he will write to someone who lives there, and have them keep watch for Eledher. If he remembers correctly, one of the older men in his  _eored_  has kin in the port at Pelargir and Minas Tirith. He will prevail upon that man's relations – not directly, of course, for it would not do make this situation common knowledge. But he will find a way.

Théodred does not sleep well that night, racked with guilt and sick at heart. She is gone, and his child with her.

**The Housemaid**

After the first two or three days, Lathwyn's stomach settles and she is no longer made queasy by the way the wain jolts her about, but she still does not like it. It is only the second time she has traveled in this way – the first time was years ago, when she was only fifteen, being brought from Helm's Deep to Edoras, shortly after escaping Dunland, and she will always associate riding in a wain with that terrible part of her life.

The wain driver and the other two passengers, a Rohirric man about Lathwyn's age and an older Gondorian woman, talk back and forth like old friends. Occasionally the woman, Pador, tries to include Lathwyn, but she is not skilled at idle conversation and does not say much. So Lathwyn watches the countryside go by, listening to their chatter. Sometimes she tries to do a little mending, but the bouncing of the wain makes this difficult.

The further from Edoras they travel, the more relaxed she becomes. No one has stopped them, and demanded to know what she is doing, fleeing like a thief in the night. There is no indication that anyone is following her, which has been her greatest fear. She does not think  _she_ is so important, but she knows her child is.

After a week's travel, the young man reaches his destination, and departs. The driver and Pador wave good-bye to him, and the trip is much quieter for a time.

 _So you are for Gondor?_ Pador asks, and it takes Lathwyn a moment to realize the question is directed at her. She merely nods in reply; she answered this several days ago.

_And how far along are you?_

Lathwyn starts to stammer a denial, but Pador smiles at her.  _It is not that obvious yet by your shape, but I know a woman who is carrying when I see one. Why are you traveling so far from your home in this state?_

The concern in Pador's voice is true, and there is something about her which reminds Lathwyn of Liðides, so she gives an answer of sorts.  _His family did not approve._ This is true enough, she thinks with rare amusement.

Pador looks only faintly startled.  _Noble, then? Poor girl – did no-one warn you about the ways of young lordlings?_

 _He wished me to stay,_  Lathwyn replies defensively, toying the bracelet on her wrist.  _But his family was not...understanding._

 _I meant no offense,_ Pador says mildly, and her eyes are full of sympathy.  _But why Minas Tirith? Tell me if I am mistaken, but you've no friends or family there, have you?_

Lathwyn looks down.  _No_ , she admits softly, laying a hand on her belly which is only just beginning to curve.  _But I will find work, and a small place to live…_

She glances up at Pador's hand on her shoulder.  _Minas Tirith is a large City, and can be very confusing if you do not know its ways,_ Pador says.  _You do not have time to spend trying to find a suitable place for you and your little one – soon you will be big as a house, and no-one will hire you._

Lathwyn had not considered this, and for the first time in many days, feels a prickle of panic at the back of her neck. How will she live if she cannot work? She has never had to worry about purchasing such things as food and shelter, and has no idea how long her store of coins will last. How will she keep her baby fed and clothed and warm?

Pador continues, unaware of Lathwyn's turmoil.  _If you will allow me – my cousin's husband owns a small tavern on the third circle. I will speak to her for you, see if they are in need of a serving girl, or if she knows of anyone who needs help?_

As always, Lathwyn is wary of anyone who offers her such assistance; she never understands why strangers would be helpful. But she also knows that she cannot afford to turn Pador down. She needs a place to live, and a way to support herself and her child.

 _I would – that would be very nice,_ she says, nodding.  _I would be grateful for the help._

 _And do not be worry,_ Pador grins,  _it is a respectable house, not a brothel in disguise._ _Nengel – that is my cousin – would never stand for such a thing._

 _Thank you,_  Lathwyn repeats, with a shy smile of her own.  _I – I did not think it would be hard to find work in such a large city._

 _You are welcome,_ Pador assures her.  _You seem a good woman, and we all have our misfortunes. I am happy to help you if I can. Although –_ Pador looks thoughtful, and Lathwyn is afraid that she is going to withdraw her offer.  _Have you told me your name, dear? I do not remember it if you have._

Lathwyn had been expecting this question much earlier in the journey. She gives another hesitant smile and says, "You are right, I had not told you. I am Eledher."

_  
_


	23. The Serving Woman

Though Eledher is uneasy about accepting help from a stranger, when Minas Tirith first comes into view, she is grateful that she has someone to guide her. She is so overwhelmed by the City's vastness that she does not even note how it nearly glows in the late afternoon sun, nor how the great tower rises majestically toward the sky. She only wonders if she has made a grave mistake.

The wain driver bids them farewell outside the gates, and Pador leads Eledher through the City. As they walk, Eledher is doubly glad that she has Pador's assistance, for she soon realizes she could easily lose herself in these twisting streets and side alleys. She tries to pay attention to their course, but she is weary from the journey, and her feet and back are aching from walking on the cobblestones. So she merely follows, wondering how far this cousin's house is, hoping that she will not be turned out.

Finally they turn into a small courtyard, guarded by a gilded carving of a lion, past a small fountain, into a building which is clearly a tavern. Inside it is well-lit, and there are a few men sitting at a table in the main room, playing some sort of game.

"Rest yourself," Pador says, pointing to an empty table, "you look exhausted. I shall speak with Nengel."

Eledher obeys, holding her carrysack tightly in her lap, grateful to be off her feet. The common room is cleaner than any tavern she has ever been in, and there is none of the raucous, loud activity she has seen in other places. The men speak quietly amongst themselves, occasionally laughing, but they are not drunk. She sees no whores nor serving girls, and she begins to have a little hope that there will indeed be work for her here. She smells something cooking – stew, she thinks. She has not eaten since early that morning, and her stomach growls.

Pador reappears quickly, followed by a woman wearing a stained apron and a somewhat stern expression. Pador introduces Eledher to the other woman, who proves to be Nengel, and then leaves them alone to talk.

Nengel gives Eledher a bit of bread and a mug of cider, then asks questions about Eledher's skills. Eledher explains her work as a kitchen maid and as a chambermaid, though she nearly says "King's chambermaid". She admits that she has no letter of reference, but Nengel does not seem concerned.

"Pador says you're in a bind?" Nengel asks bluntly. "Is the father like to come looking for you, drag you back to Rohan or make trouble for me?"

"No," Eledher says, trying to keep her voice even. "He…does not know. And his family would not allow it." She touches the bracelet on her wrist, wishing her words were not true.

Something in Nengel's face softens. "You've no family of your own?"

"They were killed by orcs many years ago," Eledher answers softly, surprised at how saying this brings tears to her eyes. She is not used to having to explain her history; in Edoras, everyone knew. She has not thought about her family in a long time.

Nengel regards her thoughtfully. "It's true I've need of a serving girl, and if you've worked in a noble house, sure you'll know what to do. And with one on the way, you're not likely to run off, are you?" Eledher only shakes her head, hardly daring to believe her luck.

Nengel explains to Eledher what her duties will be; says she will be provided room and board; introduces Tathar, who is the barman, and Nengel's husband. Then Nengel takes Eledher upstairs, and shows her the room which is to be hers.

Pador comes to bid Eledher farewell, promising to visit, then she and Nengel depart. "Rest a while, come down for a bit of supper – we'll start you tomorrow," Nengel says, smiling warmly as she closes the door behind her.

Eledher looks around the room, awed. She has never had a room to herself, and wonders how anyone could need so much space. There are two battered tables, a set of chairs, shelves on the wall holding a few pots, a basin in a stand, and a shallow wooden washtub. In a deep, curtained-off alcove is a bed, covered with a faded yellow quilt, and a clothespress. Several rag-rugs are scattered on the scrupulously clean floor, and she wonders if Nengel made them.

Most astonishing to Eledher is the fact that there is a window; a window of real glass which opens. It overlooks the courtyard and the side street which runs in front of it. She can see the nearby buildings, women chatting to one another and children playing; she watches the children, imagining her own golden-haired child so happy, and does not turn away until her feet and back begin to protest.

The bed is much softer than her cot in Rohan, and smells faintly of herbs. She lies down, hugging her carrysack close for comfort, only meaning to rest for a moment, but she is fast asleep within minutes.

When Eledher wakes, she finds the fire lit, and a bowl of stew sitting on the table.

~*~

After a time, Eledher decides that she does not particularly like Minas Tirith. It is a beautiful City, but it is louder and busier than Edoras, and infinitely more confusing. She does not like to stray far from the street directly in front of the Lion, fearing she will become hopelessly lost.

The Gondorians are friendly enough, but there are so many people, and there is something always restrained in their speech and actions, unlike the Rohirrim. Eledher does not speak much to anyone outside the Lion, but gradually she makes the aquaintance of many women in the neighborhood, all of whom have much advice on pregnancy, childbirth and child-raising. She rarely passes time idly them, however. Nengel and Pador are the only women whom Eledher considers anything like friends.

She overhears them one day. "She's settling in well," Nengel says. "She's a quiet one – barely speaks to the custom at all."

"If she worked in a noble house, she wouldn't talk while she's serving, would she?" Pador points out. "I think she's a bit shy; shy and frightened to be alone and away from home in such a state."

"Aye, that's likely true enough," Nengel agrees. "She's a sweet girl, and a good worker. Poor thing – she just needs time to get used to our City."

Eledher has never been called "sweet" or "shy" before – she is used to being called much harsher things. It is appealing to be spoken of in such kind terms.

~*~

Despite Nengel's assurance that it is not allowed, Eledher expects to be leered at by the patrons. However, most men who come into the Gilded Lion are old enough to be her father; they only flirt harmlessly and smile their thanks when she brings them food or drink. They play draughts, talk about the neighborhood, the state of the City and recent battles, and are rarely drunk, at least to her eyes. It is very different than serving meals in the Great Hall to boisterous Rohirrim.

Tathar is kind, and though he often seems brusque, Eledher learns by observation that this is only his nature. He and Nengel know everyone who enters their tavern; they call each patron by name and ask after their families. Tathar also keeps the younger men from acting too forward toward Eledher, though it is rarely a problem. When it is, however, he simply appears, insisting that the man in question either apologize, or leave.

Often Eledher wonders how she came to be so fortunate as to meet a woman so warm and pleasant as Nengel. At first, Eledher is afraid that Nengel will try to mother her, something Eledher does not like at all. But Nengel does not do so – instead, she is friendly, almost sisterly. Nengel does not try to coax Eledher into being more open. She does take it upon herself to show Eledher around the City, and they make several trips to the lower markets and to shops on the third level, where the Lion is located, until she is convinced that Eledher can at least find her way home from the first circle.

Nengel also proves invaluable in helping prepare for the child – of course Eledher has no idea what is needed to care for a baby and Nengel has two boys of her own, both of whom are now soliders. "You need to have a bit a of money," Nengel says one night while they are cleaning the main room. "You're welcome to borrow the cradle I used for my boys – I'll not need it again – but there are other things you need to have. My friend friend Caniel is a seamstress, and she can always use an extra pair of hands. You can sew?"

"Only simple work," Eledher says, wiping the mugs dry, "and I will help her gladly, but…I was given a little coin before I left."

Nengel studies Eledher curiously. "They paid you to leave?"

Eledher nods, avoiding Nengel's gaze. She does not like to lying this woman who has been so helpful and caring, but she cannot admit the money is stolen.

~*~

There is a community of Rohirrim on the second level, and when Eledher is craving the food of her people or the sound of her own language, she visits the small market there. She does not talk much to the merchants; she knows that these people still have family in Rohan, and gossip travels very quickly, even over such a distance. She has heard news from the court and of skirmishes -they could easily have heard of the disappearance Lord Theodred's wench.

One day when she is browsing the stalls, she is shocked to hear a voice calling, "Lathwyn – Lathwyn of Edoras!" She turns, acting as if her attention has been caught by something else, and sees a man standing on the corner. His bag is stuffed full of letters and packages; with relief, she realizes that he is only a messenger. He does not know who she is. He is, however, trying to find her, and she flees the neighborhood as quickly as she can.

She wonders who is looking for her, Théodred or Gríma. It has been three months; certainly Lady Éowyn has told Théodred by now. She wonders if Théodred was pleased or angry or indifferent to the news. She likes to believe that he would search for her, but she does not know if this is true, or wishful thinking. Either way, she does not visit the Rohirric neighborhood again for a very long time.

She thinks of Théodred often – she cannot help it, with his child making her belly bigger every day. The first time the child kicks, she thinks,  _He should be here for this_ , and promptly bursts into tears. Fortunately, she is with Nengel at the time, preparing the day's meals for the tavern, and Nengel does not require an explanation. Eledher thinks of Théodred while she is sewing gowns for the baby, remembering his smile, his voice, his laughter, setting memories in every stitch as protection for their child. While she is drifting off to sleep, her mind wanders, recalling how comforting it was to sleep next to him, and sometimes, she dreams of him.

She is often out of sorts, her feet and hands are always swollen, and her back aches fiercely, but otherwise, Eledher is not bothered by many trials of pregnancy. Nengel comments on this with a bit of jealousy; her own pregnancies were not so easy. But Nengel also understands how tiring childbearing is, and never allows Eledher to work herself into exhaustion.

Eledher does small things to show her gratitude–she plants cheerful flowers in pots outside the tavern, finds fragrant salves to soothe chapped hands, for she knows how such things delight the older woman. It is not nearly enough to repay Nengel for all her generosity, but it is all she can do.

The birth is surprisingly easy for a child so large; so Eledher is told by the midwife, Nengel, Pador, and every woman in the neighborhood. She does not remember much about childbirth, except that there was pain, and that she is drained by the process. What she remembers most clearly is her first glimpse of the boy who is set in her arms by the midwife. She weeps at seeing Théodred's chin and nose in that small red face, and is not even aware that the baby has her solemn eyes. She calls him Léohtfax, for her own father.

~*~

Eledher is enthralled by Léohtfax. She marvels at every wave of his arms and legs, every gurgle and coo; she is fascinated by his tiny fingers and toes, the way he wrinkles his nose when he is nursing. Nengel teases her gently, calling the boy "the first baby ever born", but Eledher only smiles and says, "He is the first baby ever born to  _me_."

When Eledher must return to the tavern, she finds that Tathar has found a basket large enough to hold the baby, so that she may keep her boy near even while she is working. To Eledher's surprise, Léohtfax quickly becomes popular with the old men who seem to be in permanent residence, and they will often bring his basket to their table while they play draughts, and talk to the child as if he is playing as well.

Eledher does not know why the old men enjoy having a child around, but she is inclined to be friendlier to anyone who is so affable towards her son. And there is no mistaking that Léohtfax loves the attention – he burbles happily when he recognizes a face, reaching his plump little arms towards anyone who so much as smiles in his direction.

Of course Eledher thinks Léohtfax is the most beautiful child in the City, and she thinks nothing of it when strangers compliment her son's healthy round cheeks or coppery-gold curls. After a time, she begins frequenting the Rohirric quarter again; it has been more than a year, and she does not think anyone would still be diligently looking for her. She is cautious, but she wants Léohtfax to know his own people as best he can. When his hair grows long enough, she braids it in the Rohirric fashion, and sometimes dresses him in the same manner. Eledher speaks Rohirric to her son when they are alone; she will not have him speaking only Westron. Known or not, he is the son of Rohan's heir, and she will not make a Gondorian of him.

Nengel is of course helpful in caring for Léohtfax. She is there when he gets his first bout of colic, his first cold; when he cries and Eledher is frantically trying to calm him, it is Nengel shows her how to soothe the pain of teething. Eledher is glad to have Nengel's gentle counsel, and gladder yet that her son will grow up with the influence of such a warm woman. Sometimes she regards Nengel almost as a grandmother to Léohtfax, and she thinks this is a very good thing.

~*~

Eledher is astounded at how quickly Léohtfax grows. It seems as if one day he is content to do nothing eat and sleep, and the next he is stubbornly trying to walk around the common room. "I can hardly keep him in clothes," she tells Nengel as they are watching Léohtfax toddle after one of the neighborhood cats. "I made that tunic less than a month ago and already it's too short."

Nengel chuckles. "He's only going to keep growing."

"His father was tall," Eledher says wistfully, and she does not see Nengel's surprised expression at this small confidence. "I barely came up to his chin." She falls silent, watching her little boy grab at the cat's tail, lost in memories.

To Eledher's amusement, Léohtfax is a talkative child. Even before he learns to speak properly, Léohtfax constantly makes noise, chattering nonsense to everyone or no-one. He is open and happy, as comfortable with strangers as he is with his mother; in this, Eledher knows he is very like his father. Théodred could effortlessly put others at ease with just a friendly word.

They are in the Rohirric market one day, at the weaver's stall. Eledher is examining a dark green length of wool, when a voice says, "Your boy has a familiar look to him. Would I know his father?"

She glances up, startled. A man near Tathar's age is watching Léohtfax collect pebbles from the ground. She thinks the man has a cobbler's stall across the lane, but she is so shaken by his words that she cannot remember.

Eledher's mind is frozen in shock, but Léohtfax chooses that moment to tug at her skirt. "Hungry,  _modor_."

"Yes,  _min_   _eafora_ ," she says, managing to smile down at him. Only then does she turn back to the man. "I do not think you would know him," she replies, heart pounding. "He does not live in Gondor." And before any more questions can be asked, she scoops up Léohtfax and hurries away.

That night she lays awake, fretting over the man's words. Eledher has always thought that Léohtfax bears a striking resemblance to Théodred, though the boy is but 18 months old. She never considered that anyone in Minas Tirith might see the similarlities. She will not go back to the Rohirric quarter again; she cannot risk someone realizing who her son's father is.

~*~

There are no more such incidents, and Eledher resumes her normal, peaceful routine. She works in the tavern, cares for her son, and only rarely stops to think how odd it is that she is so content. She watches Léohtfax grow, delighted with his every word and action, even when he is being stubborn. Sometimes she hides tears when Léohtfax laughs, for then his entire face lights up, exactly like Théodred's. She hopes this reaction will fade with time;she does not like being unsettled by her son's joy.

Occasionally, late at night, she considers leaving Minas Tirith, though she does not know where they would go. It is a tense City; there is always talk of fighting, practically at the front gates, to Eledher's mind. In Rohan, orcs did not dare come so close to Edoras; here, they have overrun the abandoned city across the river, a city she can see if she stands on the City walls. When the Steward's eldest son, Lord Boromir, leaves on some unspoken mission, the entire City can talk of nothing else, and Eledher is filled with dread, for it seems to her that hope for Gondor is fading quickly.

The regular patrons are playing draughts and talking over recent battles as usual; Eledher tries not to pay attention to what they are discussing, for their talk only makes her tense. But today, when she brings them a pitcher of ale, one of the men, Erthor, asks, "Perhaps Eledher knows – m'dear, how far is Edoras from the Fords of Isen?"

"I am not certain," she says, "two or three days' ride? When have you become so interested in Rohan?" She has gradually learned to return the banter of the men, and there is a low ripple of laughter around the table at her reply.

"There was a mighty battle there only a week or so ago," Erthor says, taking a drink of his ale. "Bad news travels fast, y'know. A whole company all but wiped out – "

Eledher's breath stops in her chest. "Which…." her voice is choked. "Which  _éored_?"

"Oh, my dear girl." Erthor is appalled at what he has said, and he stands, taking her hands in his, but she barely feels his touch. "I'm an old fool…I didn't think that you might know…"

"Which  _éored_?" Elehder repeats, unaware that her voice is rising.

Another man, Hinmorn, replies. "The one commanded by the king's son," he says, pity clear on his face. "Most of his men gone, and he himself struck down by an orc's hammer."

Eledher hears all this as if from a distance; she is not even aware when Tathar approaches, and gently guides her into a chair. The men are whispering frantically, but she has no idea what they are saying.

_Struck down by an orc's hammer._  The words echo in her mind until she fears she might scream to make it stop.

" _Modor_!" Léohtfax's cheery voice draws her back to the present, and she looks at him blankly. "Come see! Kittens!"

"I will come see, my lamb." Nengel appears from nowhere, taking Léohtfax's hand. "Your mother is going to go lie down for a bit."

"Am I?" Eledher says dazedly.

"Yes," Nengel replies firmly, "you are."

Eledher obeys. She lays motionless on her narrow bed, unable or unwilling to weep. Eventually, she takes the horsehair bracelet from her right wrist, and moves it to her left; left is for mourning. Only then does it seem real.

~*~

Eledher knows there is nothing she can do but go on, but she is numbed by grief. She attempts to continue as normal, but is aware that Nengel and Tathar, among others, are worried about her. Léohtfax knows there is something wrong with his mother, and she tries to reassure him, but there is still confusion in his face. He crawls from his own little bed at night to sleep snuggled against her, and this is the only time Eledher feels comforted.

Less than a week after the news of Théodred, Nengel comes to Eledher, panic-stricken. "They are evacuating women and children tomorrow. You must gather together a few things right away -- you cannot stay in Minas Tirith."

Eledher has been so distanced by her heartache that she has been aware of almost nothing else, so Nengel explains what has happened, and Eledher's sorrow is drowned in cold fear.

~*~

The next weeks are a blur; in later years, all Eledher will recall of the evacuation camp is an overwhelming sense of suffocation, and endless hours of boredom. Now, however, she focuses on keeping Léohtfax calm; hoping to shelter him from the reality of the situation. She tells him stories, sings songs, plays games with him. Mostly he seems to think it a grand adventure, but sometimes he will fall eerily silent, and refuse to do anything but cling to her. At night, when Léohtfax is asleep, she tries not to think of what might be happening to Nengel and Tathar. Nengel would not leave the Gilded Lion, and all of Eledher's pleas for her to join them were of no avail. She takes her turn with the cooking and laundry, as does every other woman in the camp, sometimes entertains the friends Léohtfax has made, and hopes that they will have a home to return to.

~*~

When they are allowed to return to the City, Eledher is appalled at the damage that has been done to the walls and lower levels. Worse, for her, is the unmistakable stench of orc that hangs over the City; she struggles to keep her fear under control, succeeding only through the knowledge that if she does not, her son will be scared badly.

They reach the courtyard of the Lion, and Eledher is weak with relief when she sees that it, and Nengel and Tathar, are unharmed. She knows they were luckier than many.

The City is wild with rumours: the King has returned, the King has died on the battlefield, Théoden King is dead and Lord Éomer now rules Rohan, Theoden King is only gravely wounded, Lord Faramir is dead, Lord Denethor is dead, the Corsairs have taken Osgiliath, and on and on. It is almost impossible to tell what is truth, though Eledher would not be surprised to discover that Lady Eowyn did indeed dress as a man to join the fight. Two things above all others appear to be true: the King has returned, and Mordor has been defeated.

The City is full of activity, and Eledher is unnerved to see Rohirrim everywhere she goes, though none seem to recognize her. But Léohtfax is fascinated, stopping in his tracks whenever he sees the proud men of Rohan. "Oooh,  _modor_ ," he says, eyes wide. "Who's those men?"

She tells him of the Riders of Rohan, adding, "Like your  _faeder_ , love. He was such a man, and a great warrior."

Léohtfax begins to call any Rohir he sees " _faeder_ " , so often that Eledher wishes she had never taught him that word. It tears at her heart every time he shouts, " _Faeder_!" at a total stranger.

They are returning from the market, and are nearly to the Lion. Léohtfax is skipping ahead of her, singing, "Blue, blue, blue!" for reasons Eledher cannot fathom, though it makes her smile. He runs back to her, pointing behind them excitedly. "Look,  _faeder_!"

She sighs wearily. "Not ' _faeder'_ , little one," she corrects gently, leaning down wipe dirt from his face. " 'Rider'."

"Am I not his  _faeder_ , then?"

Eledher jerks upright so quickly she nearly looses her balance.

He is thinner, he looks exhausted and careworn, but her ears have not deceived her.

It is Théodred.


	24. April 3019

Though Théodred wishes to find Eledher on his own, Éomer vehemently refuses to allow him to explore Mundberg unescorted. "Would your father wander about a foreign city without a guard even in a time of peace?" he asks. "This is not quite yet a time of peace, cousin, and though I do not fear harm from these Gondorians, you  _are_ now King, and you cannot go off on your own."

He does not think of himself as King, not yet, but Théodred admits grudgingly that Éomer is correct. So he takes one of his Riders with him, a man called Orgel who is too young and in awe of Théodred to be a hindrance.

Théodred was told that the tavern is called The Gilded Lion, but it is surprisingly difficult to locate. Finally he stops and asks the way of a man on the street, who is repairing the wall to his home, and is pointed in the correct direction.

He stops cold when he sees a woman and her child half-way down the street; it is Eledher, he is sure of that, he can tell by her walk. He does not want to shout, instead tries to catch up with them, and is shocked when the child – a little boy - points directly at him and exclaims, " _Faeder_!"

Eledher sighs wearily as she leans down to wipe at the boy's cheek... "Not ' _faeder'_ , little one," she corrects gently. " 'Rider'."

Théodred cannot restrain himself. "Am I not his  _faeder_ , then?"

Eledher jerks upright so quickly she nearly looses her balance. She stares at him, face gone utterly white and something like fear in her expression. He wonders why – surely she does not think he is going to harm her?

"My lord," Orgel's whisper makes Théodred jump slightly; he had forgotten the young Rider was there. He looks at the other man, who gestures slightly toward Eledher. "Do you not see her wrist?"

Théodred looks, and realizes that Eledher still wears his token, but on her mourning wrist.  _No wonder she seems frightened_ , he thinks, and takes a step forward. He is unpleasantly startled when Eledher moves slightly in front of the child –  _his_ child—as if to protect him. Before he can say a word, Eledher speaks.

"Are you going to take him?" He has never heard her voice so small and desperate.

Eledher can sense Léohtfax fidgeting impatiently behind her, so excited is he to have two Riders standing right in front of him, but he does not try to dart forward, for which she is grateful. She is still reeling over the fact that Théodred is alive and well, even if he looks much battered, but she will consider that later. Right now, she is only concerned for the welfare of her son. Théodred has every right to take Léohtfax from her, and she does not know how she will carry on if he does.

Théodred seems offended by the question. "No!" he denies fiercely. "No – why would you think such a thing?"

"Why else would you take the time to find us?" she returns, bewildered, dimly aware that Léohtfax is peeking around her skirts at the other Rohirrim.

To her surprised, Théodred laughs softly, and again steps forward, but this time, she does not fall back. "I have known where you are for a year and a half," he reveals, smiling in a way that brings back too many pleasant memories too quickly. "But you did not want to be found – and  _I_  did not want you found. You were right to leave," he continues, stopping two arms' length from her. "It would have been too dangerous in Edoras, for you and --- Eledher, what is his name?"

She is so taken aback by his revelation and by the barely-concealed note of pleading in his voice that for a moment she cannot answer the question. "Léohtfax," she manages, catching her son's hand and urging him forward. "For my father."

The little boy moves to stand in front of his mother, curiosity written all over his face, and Théodred goes to one knee so that he is closer to the boy's eye-level. "Léohtfax," he repeats, approving, and his heart stops when his son comes toward him unhesitatingly. Théodred holds perfectly motionless as Léohtfax runs small fingers over the sword-belt, traces the designs on the hilt. He studies the boy carefully; red-gold braids, an open, happy face, and round cheeks sprinkled with freckles.

Théodred does not know what is more unsettling; how obvious it is that Léohtfax is his child, or Eledher's dark eyes in that innocent face regarding him in such a frank manner,  holding no shadows, only delight.

Léohtfax is wholly absorbed in his examination, and he gives a little gasp of sympathy when he sees the shallow knife-cut on Théodred's temple. " _Modor_ will fix," he says in slightly garbled Westron, touching the injury carefully. " _Modor_ fixes my hurts."

Théodred gives a choked laugh, and glances up at Eledher, who is watching them with both nervousness and tenderness. "I am sure she does,  _min_   _eafora_ ," he replies, itching to sweep the boy into his arms but uncertain as to what the reaction might be.

Léohtfax frowns. "Only  _modor_  says that," he tells Théodred, who has no idea what the boy means, but Eledher chuckles and comes to stand by them.

"He may say ' _min_   _eafora'_ as well," she tells her son, smiling. "He is your  _faeder_."

Léohtfax looks puzzled a moment, then grins widely and pats Théodred's face with his smooth hands. "Not 'Rider'?"

"I am both," Théodred says, ignoring for the moment that he is no longer just a Rider. "But I should like  _faeder_ better."

Unexpectedly, Léohtfax holds out his arms, and Théodred carefully, so carefully, picks him up. The child is sturdy and warm against him, heavier than he would have thought, and is completely unselfconscious as he toys with Théodred's braids. Théodred buries his face in Léohtfax's hair, suddenly overwhelmed.  _My son_ , he thinks, something inside him trembling.

He feels a hand on his arm, and looks up to see Eledher's understanding face, and he begins to hope that this will not be as difficult as he has feared. He smiles at her, and says, "That token should be moved."

Eledher has to struggle to keep the tears from her eyes and voice. "They said you were dead," she replies, voice breaking. "They said you fell at the Fords."

He shifts Léohtfax to the curve of one arm so that he can lay a hand against her cheek. "A blow to the head which rendered me insensible for two days," he answers gently, "and a freely-bleeding cut on my scalp which looked much worse than it was." This close, she now notices a large, faded bruise that starts just behind his ear and disappears into his hair. She does not know what he intends by coming here, but she will find out soon enough and is loathe to disrupt the peaceful moment. She had never thought to feel his touch again, and it is disturbingly calming.

At Théodred's request, they continue on towards the Lion, though Eledher is unaccountably anxious. There is so much that needs to be said between her and Théodred, and she would dearly like a moment to stop and catch her breath.  Léohtfax is nearly delirious with glee and chatters away in his strange mixture of Rohirric and Westron. Though he cannot possibly understand half the words being said, Eledher has no doubts that Théodred is as besotted with their son as she is, for he is practically beaming.

But there is no time for gathering composure, for Nengel is sweeping the courtyard, and she gapes at them a moment. "Eledher?" she says, coming toward them, and Eledher sees concern in the other woman's eyes.

"Do not worry," she says, pressing Nengel's hands. "All is well."

"Is that – is that Léohtfax's father?" Nengel asks in an undertone, and at Eledher's nod, chuckles. " 'Tis no wonder Erthor's son did not stand a chance at courting you!"

An oath makes the two women turn, and Tathar is standing in the doorway, frozen with a bucket in his hands. "My lord," he says, seeming very close to stammering, "I apologize – I did not expect – that is to say, you are welcome to the Gilded Lion."

Théodred inclines his head in thanks, and Nengel's eyes suddenly narrow. "Eledher," she demands, and Eledher can see she is working something out in her mind, "is that -- that is not Lord Théodred of Rohan?"

Eledher is thrown off – balance; she did not know that Gondorians would recognize anyone but Théoden King on sight. "Yes," she admits reluctantly, and Nengel's shock is almost comic. "I did say that Léohtfax's father was noble."

"But you did not say he was  _king_ ," Nengel sputters. "You must certainly sit down this evening and tell me –"

Eledher has stopped listening, for one word distracted her. She turns to Théodred. "You….your father… you are king?"

Théodred nods, sorrow tightening his chest. "My father was killed on the Pelennor," he replies. "You did not know?"

"I heard rumours," she says, and he can see that she is badly shaken by this news. "But I thought them only rumours, for I did not think…how?"

He hears what she does not say.  _How was he whole enough in body and mind to fight?_  "Later," he says in Rohirric. "I have much to tell."

There are patrons inside, older men, laughing and playing draughts, but they fall silent at the sight of Théodred and Orgel. The older man who recognized him in the courtyard looks as if he might be preparing to make an announcement, but Théodred does not wish to cause a scene or to have the scrutiny of everyone in the room. "If it please you," he says quickly to the man – Tathar, Eledher said - "there is no need to tend specially to me, though ale and food would be most welcome. I am here simply to speak with Eledher."

Tathar gives him a measuring glance that holds some hostility, and Théodred wonders what, exactly, Eledher has told these people about her son's father. "Aye then," Tathar nods. "But your coin is no good here, my lord –we'd have no City at all left if not for you and your kin."

It is not the first time Théodred has encountered this gratitude in Mundberg, but it still moves him deeply. "I thank you," is all he says in return, and then turns to Orgel. "You are at leisure," he tells the young man. "I would speak without your ears to hear."

Orgel does not look surprised; he makes a bow, then takes a seat at the bar. Within moments, the other patrons have invited themselves to join him.

Léohtfax refuses to be put down, and Théodred is certainly not going to argue with him, though Eledher says, "He does not have to be held, if you are weary of his weight."

He gives a wry smile as he settles the child on his knee. "I am not so weary that I cannot hold my own son," Théodred tells her, and for some reason, this makes her blush prettily.

After food is brought, he and Eledher talk warily, idly about these past weeks in Mundberg, Théoden's healing and Gríma's banishment. Someone listening might think the conversation mundane, but Théodred can feel the tension between them drawing tight as a bowstring. They both very deliberately avoid saying of anything concerning their past, or future, association – he does not wish to talk of that matter in a public setting, even though they speak in their native language and cannot be understood by any but Orgel. 

For now, he is content to hear all Eledher can tell about their son, though he cannot help but be wistful at having missed two years of the boy's life. Her face lights up in a way he has never seen as she talks, and she often casts fond glances at Léohtfax. He has finally grown tired of sitting still, and is now on the floor, playing with carved horses, darting around the room or demanding Théodred's attention to show him a particular toy.

Nengel and Tathar do not approach, but Théodred is aware that they are watching from behind the long bar, and occasionally they whisper between themselves.

Something has changed about Eledher, Théodred thinks as she is telling him of Léohtfax's first words. She holds herself straighter, seems less hesitant and smiles more readily. She even talks more – he has never heard her speak so many words in such a short period of time. With somewhat sheepish amusement, he realizes that these changes have only strengthened her appeal.

Eledher feels like she is babbling, but Théodred seems enthralled with her talk of Léohtfax, which is of course as it should be, to her mind. And Léohtfax is fascinated by his father – it is as if her son realizes his connection to this stranger, and is trying to make up for lost time. He pulls on Théodred's sleeve for attention, proudly displays his wooden horses, and from time to time, just sits on the floor watching Théodred avidly.

She does not want to ask why Théodred is here; she does not know what he will say, and she does not know how she will respond. Eledher has many times imagined what she would do if she saw Théodred again, but now that this dreaming is fact, she finds herself at a loss. So she follows his lead, and avoids the subject altogether, though her stomach is in knots and her pulse beats a bit more quickly when he smiles at her.

Eledher does not know how much time has passed when the young Rider, Orgel, approaches. "My lord, you shall be late."

Théodred looks irritated. "Late for what?"

"You are to dine with the King?"

Théodred swears under his breath, and Eledher hopes that Léohtfax did not hear the words clearly. "I had forgotten," he mutters, scratching absently at the wound on his scalp. "I suppose it matters not that I am King as well?" Orgel wisely says nothing in response to that, but Eledher feels an unexpected thrill of fear at hearing Théodred so name himself.

Then he sighs, resigned. "I much wish to speak with you further," he says to her, expression serious and eyes hesitant. "Shall I return this evening?"

"If not too late," Eledher replies, suddenly unable to hold his gaze. "I must tend to my duties in the morning."

He looks satisfied at that answer, and she tells him where the outside door is to her room, so that he will not need disturb Nengel or Tathar to gain entrance. With obvious reluctance, Théodred rises, and Eledher does so as well.

She is uncertain when Théodred comes to stand directly in front of her. He takes her left wrist, and without asking her leave, unfastens the token there, and moves it to her right. His rough fingers are warm against her skin, and Eledher is left slightly breathless at the gentleness of his touch.

Théodred does not wish to leave, but knows that it will be commented upon if he is late to his appointment with Aragorn because he was occupied with a woman – and a third circle serving woman, at that – and he does not wish to cause gossip until it can no longer be avoided. "Til this evening, then," he says, and is startled when Léohtfax suddenly wraps himself around his leg.

"No, stay," he orders, face stormy. "No, you stay,  _faeder_."

He picks the boy up, kisses his cheek. "I cannot stay now," he says with great remorse. "But I shall come back soon."

Léohtfax begins to cry, and Théodred does not quite know what to do. He looks to Eledher for assistance, but she seems amused.

"He is your son," she says simply, and all it once the full importance of that phrase strikes him. He is indeed Léohtfax's father, and as such, he must learn to deal with any mood his son might be in. That knowledge is daunting, but Théodred pushes it aside to think about at a later time. Now he holds Léohtfax to his shoulder, murmuring in the boy's ear to soothe him. "I will come back," he promises again, and Léohtfax turns a tear-streaked, trusting face to Théodred.

"Soon?" he asks, still sniffling.

"Soon," Theodred agrees.

Only now does Eledher step forward, and he places their son in her arms. The boy immediately begins sobbing again, hiding his face in his mother's shoulder, and Eledher bids, "Go, Théodred. He will not cease while you are here."

He nods in understanding, and makes for the door where Orgel is waiting patiently. Théodred glances back before he steps into the courtyard, taking in Eledher comforting his distraught son, and he cannot remember when he has seen anything that roused such an ache within him.


	25. Interlude - April 3019 - July 3019

Eledher tends to her duties as if it is a day like any other, seeking to steady herself with the routine she has created over the past years. She is not entirely successful. When they speak to her, the regular patrons cannot quite hide the curiosity in their voices, Nengel's idle talk of the neighborhood and the city is strained, and, at intervals, Léohtfax runs to the door and peers into the courtyard hopefully, and then returns to his toys with a downcast face.

The numb shock at seeing Théodred alive has yet to vanish entirely, and she cannot keep herself from thinking over the news of Rohan which he relayed. Théoden King wholly restored by the wizard and hale enough to fight in two serious battles. She wishes she could have seen him, for she remembered how proud and noble he was before sickness and treachery struck. She remembered how he had ordered that she and the other children recovered from Dunland be cared for and made useful. A good man and one she had done her best to care for in his ill-health. Eledher's mind shies away from the memory of a small glass vial and its poisonous contents.

  _I did not know,_ she tells herself sternly.  _I would never have done so willingly._ She has almost begun to believe that she is not to blame in the king's decline. Almost.

Gríma banished, his duplicities uncovered and his master stricken down. "Trapped in the tower of Isen, guarded by the Ents," Théodred had told her, and Eledher marvels at such strange happenings. But she finds herself strangely unable to imagine the Golden Hall without Gríma's malicious presence, even while a great, bone-deep relief fills her at the idea.

She does her best to not think on Théodred, for when she does, her stomach twists into knots and her attention wanders alarmingly. But it is difficult, with the sidelong glances of the men and Léohtfax's repeated question of, "Is it soon now, _modor_?"

When the evening becomes night, Eledher sees her son to bed, but he is restless, and so she rocks him to sleep. Before he drifts off completely, Léohtfax startles her by touching the token on her wrist and saying dreamily, " _Fader_ has one like that." She had not even noticed.

When she returns to the common room, Eledher is not surprised when Nengel approaches her. "Now don't be taking offense, dear," she says in a voice that is not to be argued with, "but I think now would be the time for you to tell me a bit more about all those things you've been keeping so secret."

So they sit at a table in the corner, and Eledher tells her. Not everything, of course – she does not tell Nengel of how she came to Théodred in the beginning, nor does she tell of what broken their association, or of her one-time fascination with Gríma Wormtongue. She does speak in passing of her time in Dunland, and tries not to see the pity in Nengel's expressive face; she even mentions how she found comfort with strange men – though she does not tell Nengel how many there were - of her position in the Meduseld, and of course, she speaks of Théodred. When she is done, the common room is empty, and Tathar has put out most of the lamps.

"Should you like for Léohtfax to sleep in our room this night?" Nengel asks. "If your Lord Théodred is returning this evening, perhaps it would be better if you did not have to whisper to keep from waking a child?"

"That might be best," Eledher agrees, rubbing her eyes wearily. "I do not know what he will say, and Théodred is not one to speak quietly." She gives a wry smile. "And do not think that I wish for solitude for more than talk," Nengel chuckles, "that is not my intention, not now."

Nengel makes no comment on this, and she leaves to move Léohtfax to the room she and Tathar have, down the hall from Eledher's.

Eledher cleans the common room with a will, focusing only on the task at hand, trying not to wonder how late it is or why Théodred has not yet arrived.  _He is King_ , she reminds herself sharply,  _he will no doubt be much occupied and has many things on his mind._

~*~

Théodred has many things on his mind; unfortunately, none of these things are the matter at hand. After being asked to repeat himself several times, Aragorn finally says, "You are distracted this evening, Theodred."

Théodred swears to himself. "I cry you pardon, my lord. Do not worry yourself; it is no matter of country."

Aragorn raises an eyebrow. "Not my Steward and your cousin which troubles you?"

Théodred laughs at that. "Not I," he replies, "Though I cannot speak for Éomer. No, my lord, it is …something else." He does not want to explain his distraction, not now, not even to the newly-returned King.

Aragorn regards him evenly. "And it grows late as well. Go; tend to whatever it is that holds your attention."

~*~

When Théodred arrives at the Lion, there is the glow of a lamp in the upper window, and he breathes a sigh of relief. It is indeed late, and he had feared that Eledher would have already retired. He knocks quietly on the door, and she answers readily, standing aside to let him enter.

He looks around the room, curious to see how she and his son have been living. It is of a modest size, neat as a pin. There is a curtained-off area which he assumes holds a bed, a worktable against the wall, shelves that hold a few dishes and items of cookware, a lopsided table with mismatched chairs, and rugs on the wooden floor. On the table stand a teapot and two mugs, and draperies of some delicate fabric drift in the breeze which comes from the open window. Under that window, he sees a chest holding many toys. He frowns, looks around the room again. "Where is Léohtfax?"

Eledher is taking a kettle off of the hook over the fire. "You did not think I would keep him awake so late?" she asks, and though her smile would say that she is teasing, it is a forced smile, and her words cannot conceal her tension. "He is sleeping in Nengel and Tathar's room. I thought it would be best if he were not awakened by our talk."

"Are you planning on shouting?" Théodred says lightly, and immediately wishes he had not been so blithe when Eledher sets the kettle on the table with slightly more force than necessary.

"I do not know," she says, voice edgy as she pours hot water into the waiting teapot. "I have no idea what you wish to say to me."

Her hostility takes Théodred aback, and before he can think better of it, he has said, "I would say that I would like you and Léohtfax to return with me to Edoras."

Eledher freezes in the action of putting the lid on the teapot, and stares at Théodred. In her dark eyes, he sees disbelief, confusion, fear, and anger, as well as the faintest spark of something that might be hope or regret. "Your pardon?"

"Do not tell me you are surprised," he says quietly, seating himself at the table. "You did not think that I would want to leave you and my son in Gondor?"

Eledher gives herself a moment to think by returning the kettle to its hook. "I – I did not know what to think," she replies, turning back to face him. She tries to keep her voice steady, but is not sure she succeeds. "When last we met before this day, you were not pleased to be in my presence."  _Second to last time we met_ , her traitorous mind insists.  _The last time we met, we took great satisfaction in each other's bodies._

She goes to sit at the table, pushing aside that vivid memory, and sees deep self-reproach written all over Théodred's face. He seems to be struggling for something to say, and she pours herself a cup of tea, trying to keep her hands from shaking in anticipation of his answer.

"It was wrong of me," he finally says, and she catches her breath in shock. "I should not have acted so coldly toward you. I know ….I know that you would not have brought harm to my father on purpose. And it was not proper to ask you to risk yourself against one as ruthless as Gríma."

He reaches forward slightly, as if he is going to take her hand, and then only clasps his own hands together. "I regret that you suffered so because of me," he continues, "and I am sorry that I treated you so harshly."

Eledher is stunned. She does not know how to reply to this; she had never expected to hear such speech from Théodred if she lived to be a hundred years old. She struggles to form a reply, but can find no words.

Théodred would give anything to know what she is thinking, but he can only see that Eledher is utterly bewildered. She has not moved since he began speaking, and even now, she sits motionless. He says no more for several moments, not wanting to goad her into saying something, but finally he cannot bear the silence any longer. "Eledher."

She blinks as if startled, and Théodred supposes that she is. He can name any number of relations or acquaintances who would be dumbstruck to hear such words from him, and many more who would have the same reaction at knowing he was apologizing so to this particular woman. He wishes he were not so anxious to hear her reply.

She studies him closely for a moment, then her gaze flits downward, and something she sees – _on the table?_  – relaxes her face the smallest fraction. "Thank you," she says simply, but her voice has eased, and no longer holds that defense, anxious edge to it.

Théodred lets out a slow breath, for he had not been certain that she would not berate him and show him the door. She has changed, this is clear to him, and he knows that he cannot expect her to act as she once did.

Now that is said, however, he is at a loss. What is said next is entirely up to Eledher

Eledher takes a long drink of her tea, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. She is more affected by Théodred's apology than she is willing to admit, for even if he were not now King of Rohan, he would be under no obligation to do so. And yet he has.

At length, she plucks up her courage. "Théodred," she says cautiously, "What if..what if I do not wish to return to Rohan?"

Now it is Théodred who looks stunned, though he gains his voice more quickly than she did. "Not wish to retur – have you grown so attached to Mundberg, then?" He is not accusing, only puzzled, then she sees something spark briefly in his eyes. "Or someone, perhaps?"

That  _is_  faintly accusatory, and she cannot keep from saying, "If I have, what matter is that to you?" He flinches almost imperceptibly, and she cannot feel much sympathy for him, as she is certain he has passed few nights alone since she left Edoras. But then she softens. "I am not overly attached to Mundberg itself, but I have made friends here," she tries to explain. "And people here…people here do not speak of me so disapprovingly as some in Edoras." Understanding as well as a flash of anger comes across his face, anger not directed at her, but at those who would say such things.

"Think you they would still speak so if you were attached to the King?" he asks, and it seems to be an honest question. "More to the point, the mother of the Heir to Rohan?"

Again he has shocked her to silence for a moment. "I do not think I take your meaning," she says, feeling a little light-headed.

"Eledher," Théodred says in an even, matter-of-fact tone, "I have every intention of formally acknowledging Léohtfax and designating him my heir. It is not as if I have another, and as far as I am aware, there is no possible wife in the near future." He makes his voice softer, seeing that she is, for some reason, alarmed. "I do  _not_ intend to force you into any arrangement which you do not want, but I would not make Eomer's children my heirs when I have a fine son of my own." Now he does reach out and take her hand in a very loose hold, so that she may draw away if she desires, and brushes his thumb over the token on her wrist. "And as you still wear this, I have some hope that you might be willing to consider me."

All at once she is overwhelmed and Eledher pulls away from him, standing abruptly. "I must ask you to go," she says, crossing her arms over her chest. "I cannot…not right now.. please go…"

Théodred does not seem confused or hurt by her reaction, only nods and stands. "You have time to decide," he says gently. "I must go to Rohan after the coronation, but then I will return to convey my father home. I would have your answer on that occasion."

She nods, a bit of the panic receding, and is further calmed by the wistfulness in his voice when he adds, "But I should like to see Léohtfax ere I depart."

Eledher almost smiles. "I do not want to keep him from you," she replies, "and he is certainly eager to see you again."

Théodred does smile, wide and pleased and warm as she remembers. " 'Til then," he says, and leaves.

Eledher does not sleep for a long time. Instead, she sits by the window, mind reeling, wondering what, exactly, he has just offered her.

~*~

When Théodred tells Éomer of his meeting with Eledher, his cousin, not surprisingly, is displeased. "Make him your heir," he says flatly. "Are you quite mad? What do you propose to do when you marry, and your wife bears you sons?"

Théodred gives a bitter laugh, and Éomer stops in his pacing to glare. "Éomer, how long has it been since any man, lord or merchant, presented his daughter as a possible bride?" He takes a gulp of the ale in front of him. It is a weak Gondorian variety, but not without taste. "You know why that is as well as I do."

Éomer stares into his own mug so he will not have to meet Théodred's gaze. "I do not think I understand –"

"Do not insult me," Théodred cuts him off sharply, then continues in a kinder voice. "I have dallied with women since I was old enough to do so, and in all that time, only five women have brought their bellies to me. And not once – not  _once_  – have any of those women been proved honest in the end."

He is aware that Éomer is regarding him expressionlessly. "I am well aware that all of Rohan doubts my ability to produce an heir, cousin. And no lord wants to wed his daughter to a man who cannot do so unless it is unavoidable, not even if that man is king." The bitterness has returned; he had thought that he had come to terms with this particular assumption, but apparently, that is not so.

"As that is the case," Éomer says, hesitantly enough to make Théodred suspicious, "then can you be so certain that this boy is yours?"

Théodred does not grow angry, but only chuckles wryly. "A fair point. But if he is not mine, then he is my father's," Éomer chokes on his ale, and Théodred lets him catch his breath before adding, "or yours."

Éomer glares at his cousin again once he has stopped coughing, and drops heavily into the chair across from Théodred. "As I said, a fair point," Théodred goes on, "but when you see him you shall have no doubt as to his father." His voice grows hard. "And now that I have answered that point, I do not expect to hear it voiced  _ever_  again.  You may disagree with me all you like when we are alone about many things, but I will not hear my son's blood disparaged."

Éomer seems frustrated, but he nods his understanding. "And what of his mother?" Théodred finds it irritating that Éomer rarely refers to her by name, but for now, he holds his tongue. "Are you simply going to keep her? It is not as if you can marry her."

Théodred takes a deep breath, and makes his voice as bland as possible. "I can if I marry her on the left."

Éomer's mouth drops open. "Surely you are jesting?" he demands. "No king – nor lord, either – has done so in years beyond counting!"

"It is not frequent, that is certain," Théodred agrees, "but it  _has_  happened, and the house of Eorl has not been utterly destroyed." He raises a hand to forestall Eomer's next outburst. "She is the mother of my child, cousin, and I am bound to protect her and keep her in good health, and, if she will accept it, give her the protection of my house."

" _If_  she accepts it?" Éomer exclaims. "Is she mad as well?"

Théodred is almost amused at Éomer's indignation. "I do not know that she even wishes to return to Rohan."

Éomer is suddenly serious again. "Théodred, if you do intend to make the child your heir, she has no choice."

Théodred is well aware of this. He knows that he could have Eledher and Léohtfax both, or only Léohtfax, forcibly moved to Edoras, and no-one would disagree with his right to do so. But he does not want it to come to that; he wants Eledher to decide to come with him on her own. He does not know what he will do if she refuses.

~*~

Nengel is unnaturally quiet when Eledher tells her of Théodred's visit. "I cannot say that I would not miss you," Nengel says at last, "for you and your little one have become like family. But Eledher, you would be a fool to stay here as a serving woman. And --" she hesitates, "—my dear, I am sorry if I offend, but you do not truly have a choice. He is King of Rohan, and if he chooses to take Léohtfax, none will oppose him."

Eledher gives a wan smile. The panic has faded, and has been replaced by resignation or perhaps resentment. Or perhaps neither; she is still so confused that she cannot tell. "I know," she says softly, "but it is kind of him to pretend that the choice is mine."

Nengel lays her hand on Eledher's shoulder. "It will not be so bad, will it?" she comforts. "It will not be like starting over in a strange City all on your own, and you will have position, as the mother to Rohan's heir. What will do you do with all the time you will have on your hands? You certainly cannot find a tavern to work in."

"I like working in your tavern," Eledher admits, and smiles more fully at Nengel's pleased face. "And I do not know what I will do. You are right; I do not think I would be allowed to work so, but I do not know how to do anything else." Her voice trembles a bit, though she tries to steady it; the idea of sitting idle is somehow frightening.

Nengel looks thoughtful. "You have shown interest in the apothecary," she points out. "Would not herb lore or midwifery make a suitable occupation?"

Eledher considers this. She has not had much time for herb lore, with a tavern and a small child to look after, but she already has the basic knowledge – and it would make her grandmother proud. "Perhaps," she says at length. "It would suit, I think."

Though Nengel takes the decision as made, Eledher does not inform Théodred of her mind in the matter, and she is not sure why. When he visits Léohtfax – and he does so far more often than she would have predicted – Théodred is friendly, acting almost as if the decision does not matter to him. This would cause her to feel slighted, except for the moments when she sees him watching her from the corner of his eye, face conflicted and serious. But he does not push her, nor does he make any advances toward her person, though occasionally he seems on the verge of doing so. Instead, he talks to her casually, discussing mostly Léohtfax, but sometimes bits of news of the City and various Riders. It is very odd, to speak with him so openly and easily, and Eledher finds that she quite likes it.

And there is no doubt to any on the circle that Léohtfax adores his father. He runs to meet Théodred when he sees him approaching, and Théodred swings his son into the air, making Léohtfax shriek with delighted laughter. Many have commented on what a handsome pair father and son make, and Eledher cannot help but feel proud. Uneasily, she wonders how quickly this gossip will spread, and what the reactions of the people of Minas Tirith will be.

It spreads very quickly, of course; she discovers this one day when she and Léohtfax are in the market and she overhears whisperings about her son's parentage, sees a person or two staring. No one says anything hostile, but she can feel curious eyes upon her, and this makes her so uncomfortable that she does not linger among the stalls.

This happens time and again; sometimes, a man or woman will feel free to question her, or touch Léohtfax's hair, often enough that Eledher begins to dread leaving the neighborhood and she does not take Léohtfax with her unless she has to.

These incidents make her so skittish that she finally speaks of it to Théodred, who immediately orders a Rider stationed to the Gilded Lion. "I do not know why I did not think of it," he says, looking exasperated with himself. "Because Mordor is brought down does not mean there are not brigands who would wish harm upon you or him."

This is what eventually eases Eledher's mind about leaving Mundberg. She does not think it will be any different in Edoras, but at least she will be in a place which is not so foreign – even after nearly three years, the White City makes her nervous. With the Shadow defeated and Grima gone, she wishes to be in Rohan. It is her home, and always has been.

~*~

Théodred leaves a week after the coronation of King Elessar.  He goes to bid Eledher and Léohtfax farewell, telling her, "I cannot say precisely when I will return, but it will be within three months. My father has waited long enough to join his kin." Then he kisses his son's cheek, holds him close, and regrets having to leave for so long before he is half-way down the street.

The trip to Edoras is not pleasant, for Éomer will not cease trying to talk Théodred out of the idea of a left-marriage. It is even more trying when Éowyn agrees with her brother, and they have many a heated debate, far from their traveling companions.

Finally Théodred has reached the end of his tether. "Éomer, I am quite aware you do not approve. You have never approved of Eledher, and if you began to do so now, then I would be certain I was wrong. But hear this – I do not  _need_ your approval, and I grow weary of constantly being told that this will be the ruin of Rohan and our line. It is not as if I am trying to make her queen! And I do not yet know if she will even want to hold to me, so this argument is a waste of time and breath!"

Éomer looks rather startled by Théodred's vehemence, and Éowyn is glaring. " I do not insist that you approve of Eledher or even like her," Théodred  continues. "What I do insist is that you treat her with the respect that is due to the mother of my son, whether she agrees to my proposal or not. And I promise you, cousin, that if Léohtfax is given less respect than is his due, you will answer to me." He is doing his best to keep from hitting Éomer right then out of nothing more than frustration.

To his credit, Éomer seems to realize this, and only says, "I would not act unseemly toward your son, cousin!" a bit heatedly.

Éowyn, however, will have her say. "I do not intend to treat her badly, Théodred, but she is a serving woman in a tavern!" she argues. "Will you introduce her  to the King and his wife, have her preside over formal dinners? How can you expect her to be a part of court?"

Théodred rounds on Éowyn, who holds her ground admirably. "Rohan has been without a queen for as long as I have been alive, has it not?" he says through clenched teeth. "And did you not defend her, to both me and your brother, as violently as you are opposing her now? What happened to your great sympathy for her?"

"I am capable of being sympathetic while thinking that this idea is most improper, and will likely cause a great scandal!" Éowyn snaps. "Have you not thought of how this will look? Not just to Rohan, but to Gondor and Dol Amroth and every other country?"

"I should think that if King Elessar does not object overly, then you should not be worried!" Théodred retorts, and takes great pleasure at his cousins' faces at this.

He has overstated the simplicity of the issue, of course – he spent many hours with Aragorn and  the new Steward arguing this very point, assuring them both that he was not going to try and involve Eledher in matters political, explaining why he thought it the proper course of actions, promising to consider a dissolution if a politically advantageous marriage became pressing. But in the end, Aragorn had said resignedly, "We are allies, Théodred, but I have no dominion over you. I will not say against you."

"I do not require Eledher to be a part of court unless she so wishes," Théodred goes on, "and I suspect that she would be horrified at the idea herself. But I do require, Éowyn, that you help her in whatever ways you can. I will not abide her, or my son, being the target of malicious gossip or action. If you will treat her kindly, then others will follow your lead."

The matter is not spoken of again, and though Éomer and Éowyn scarcely speak to him for the rest of the journey, Théodred is grateful for the silence. Given that marriage on the left is always touchy, and that he wishes to designate Léohtfax his heir whether she agrees to such an arrangement or not, he has more than enough to occupy his thoughts without being shouted at constantly.

Upon reaching the Meduseld, he asks Éowyn to find suitable rooms for Eledher and Léohtfax.  He cannot, of course, install them in the queen's chambers, and will not put them in rooms too close to his - he does not want Eledher to assume she has no choice in furthering an association.

By the time they are ready to return to Mundberg, the rooms are ready, and Théodred is impressed by Éowyn's thoughtfulness, for she has carefully made certain that the furnishings and draperies are not so rich as to be intimidating. Perhaps Éowyn's disapproval is lessening, or perhaps it is just her innate sense of compassion. Either way, Théodred is pleased, and makes certain to tell her so. He begins to have hope that Eledher will, in some small way, eventually be accepted by his kin.

~*~

When Eledher hears the news that the King of Rohan is approaching Mundberg, she is seized with joy and panic, but she forces herself to be calm. It will not do to greet Theodred in such a state.

Nengel helps her pack her meager belongings with many tears and assurances that they will, in fact, manage without her. She gifts Eledher with two quilts made by all of the women in the circle, as well as the cradle which held Léohtfax. "You will need it before I will," Nengel says, and chuckles when Eledher blushes.

She does not have much else to take with them – some clothing, Léohtfax's toys, the rocking chair Tathar made for her – and the preparations do not take long. Restless and nervous, Eledher continues her duties in the tavern; there is no point in watching for Theodred by the courtyard gate. He will come when he comes.

The sun is beginning to set when she hears Léohtfax's delighted shout of, " _Fader_!" and her stomach twists. She lets them have this brief time alone, for over the past months, Léohtfax has either been dejected at not seeing Théodred, pestering her endlessly about when he will return, or seemingly uncaring at all about his presence. The last worried Eledher greatly, but apparently this worry was needless.

Léohtfax comes barreling down the street toward him, and Théodred sweeps the boy into his arms, laughing and holding him tightly. "I have missed you,  _min_   _eafora_ ," he says, only understanding how true his words are now that he has his son in his arms. "Have you been good to your mother?"

"You were gone too long!" Léohtfax informs him, and Théodred realizes that his speech has become clearer, and that he has also grown an inch or two.

"I will try not to be gone so long again," Théodred says, amused at the stern expression on his son's little face.

They make their way towards the courtyard, followed by Orgel, and Theodred is glad to have Léohtfax to distract him from worrying about what Eledher is going to say. He hopes fervently that he will not be obliged to take her to Rohan under armed guard, for the sake of both of them. And that is not something Léohtfax should have to witness.

"….said that I will get a pony!"

Théodred realizes he was not paying attention to whatever Léohtfax was saying. "Who said you will get a pony?" It occurs to him that his son has a Gondorian accent, and this irks him.

" _Modor_ ," the boy chirps. "When we go live with you."

Théodred stops in his tracks. "When you come live with me?"

Léohtfax nods happily and tugs at Théodred's braids. " _Modor_  says we are going to live with you soon. Is it soon now?"

A grin breaks across Théodred's face. "It is almost soon," he says, unutterably relieved and for the first time in months, strangely peaceful.

When they turn into the courtyard, Eledher has just emerged from the tavern. She looks on edge and hesitant, though her back is straight and she is trying to keep her face blank.

Théodred approaches her, smiling broadly. "I am reasonably informed by this young man that he is to have a pony, when he comes to live with me?"

Her eyes light up, a warm, pleased smile curving her mouth and Théodred is caught off-guard by how fiercely he has missed that smile upon waking. It seems singularly inappropriate to see it now, in the fading light of day, with his son in his arms, but it only reinforces his surety that he has made the right decision.

Eledher is so tense that she finds it hard to breathe, but when Théodred smiles and speaks, with his gaze fixed only on her, she cannot help but smile back. "That is what I told him," she agrees, almost afraid to look away from him. "I was not mistaken?"

Théodred chuckles. "He shall have one pony of every colour," he says, and Eledher more than half-suspects he is complete earnest.

She cannot quite rid herself of the notion that Théodred is only come to bid them farewell, and is startled when he moves closer, and takes her hand. "Have no fear," he says in a low voice, his clear eyes understanding.  "It will be well, Eledher."

Eledher takes a deep, steadying breath, and wills herself to believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Left-handed or morganatic marriage: In the context of royalty, a morganatic marriage is a marriage between people of unequal social rank, which prevents the passage of the husband's titles and privileges to the wife and any children born of the marriage. But since it's not exactly our universe, I've decided to assume that could be amended somewhat, even if Theodred has a fight ahead of him. Also my Theodred is a arrogant little shit, and would fully believe that he could amend that bit.


End file.
